


Everybody Cries at Weddings

by AnnaBolena



Series: 5 + 1 Weddings [2]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, 19th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Adams hate club, Alex drinks too much coffee, Alex tries to out-fuck his feelings, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Office, Can deez bois communicate or nah?, Coworkers to friends I guess, M/M, Men at staggering odds with their emotions™, Nobody knows, Pining Idiots, Sexual Tension - Freeform, cliches, obnoxious flower language flirting, someone is JEALOUSSSS, will they ever get it together?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-05-20 15:31:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14897198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaBolena/pseuds/AnnaBolena
Summary: "Yes," Alex breathes out, hesitantly. "Thomas, don’t say something you’re going to regret come the morning.""For the record, I’m still fucking pissed at your financial betrayal," Thomas assures him, "But that isn’t why I called."a.k.a. Thomas and Alexander try and fail at staying away from one another.We pick up where we left off - or do we?





	1. I cannot put the notion away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notanightlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notanightlight/gifts), [fojolife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fojolife/gifts).



> Dedicated to the two most loyal commentators I have ever come across & am very happy to hear from every time  
> If you haven't read the first part of the series, you might be a bit confused, so I would advise you to head on over there before returning back to this work. :D

Today should have been a good day for Thomas. It starts out well enough. He wakes up feeling surprisingly rested and finds his glasses on the first try. Anna has his usual coffee order steaming and ready to go the second he walks into her little café, the pastries she includes are straight out of the oven. Thomas tips ten dollars because he feels generous.

"You’re rather chipper today, TJ, have a date coming up today, is that it?"

Thomas grins as he takes his first sip of coffee for the day. Excellent, as always. "Married to my work, Anna, nothing to be done about that."

"That’s what quadruple-espresso latte with cinnamon guy says as well," Anna teases.

"He still comes by?" Thomas asks, predictably failing at hitting the mark on sounding ‘mildly disinterested’ and instead shooting straight at ‘surprisingly eager’.

"Not as often as you do, but occasionally, yes," she nods. "He makes sure to complain about you at length when he does."  It’s still early enough that ‘the revolutionary coffeenant’ is empty. Thomas usually grabs his order before she officially opens. She allows it because he tips well. "Perhaps you’d like one for him along with your order? Butter him up?"

"I’m trying to avoid buttering him up these days, actually, see if I can’t do my job without relying on his good will." Thomas frowns as he takes the second sip of coffee for the day. The world already looks a bit better. He’s feeling magnanimous today though, so he relents and cringes as Anna mixes together the bizarre combination his coworker enjoys so much. He has tried a sip of it by now, and barely restrained a gag when he did. 

"He’s said something along those lines when he came here last," Anna nods sagely, "Before he proceeded to down four shots of espresso with questionable spices like he needed them to survive."

"And you still haven’t convinced him to limit his caffeine responsibly?"

"I tried, let me tell you that. But that guy is a force of fucking nature. And good business, so I think I’ll abstain from antagonizing him." A familiar strategy to everyone that has met Alexander Hamilton, Thomas thinks, a touch bitterly.

"Ha. Don’t I know it?" Thomas mutters, before saying his goodbyes.

+

"I like the idea, Thomas," Washington says when he puts down the purple folder Thomas handed over yesterday, "It’s sophisticated, elegant, might even pull back the investors we lost with that stunt after New Year’s." Ah yes, the stunt of ensuring that W & A Insurance was perceived as inclusive and respectful. Thomas is still unsure just how much of an effect that had. He supposes he will find out at the next meeting. 

"I’m sensing a ‘but’ in the air, Sir," Thomas runs a hand over his eyes, careful not to disturb the contacts.

"But it’s extravagant and we’re still reeling from losing key investors. You’ll need to get Finance’s approval." Ah. There it is.  Why is it that Hamilton seems to run everything and Washington just lets it happen? Where does Hamilton’s control stop? Washington watches him carefully as he reveals his apprehension. Thomas sighs and stands up. "Suppose I’ll go talk to the little gremlin then."

"I’d advise you not to demean your coworkers, at least not where I can hear you do it," Washington chides as he focuses his attention back to his desktop. But as Thomas leaves, he thinks he can hear a chuckle from behind him, and a fond repetition of ‘ _gremlin_ ’.

Thus Thomas takes it upon himself to follow a small maze of corridors until he comes to a stop in front of a closed door that reads A. Hamilton, Head of Finance. It is unusual, to say the least, that his door is closed. Thomas flags down a tall and spindly intern on his way out of the breakroom. "Oliver, is Hamilton in a meeting?"

"Not that I know, he just hasn’t had coffee yet, the machine exploded coffee over him a minute ago and now my mail run will probably take twice as long," Oliver Wolcott Jr. rushes to explain with only mild undertones of complaining. Thomas raises an eyebrow and lifts up the spare coffee cup, watches Oliver’s shoulders sag in relief. "You’re a godsend." And the intern disperses immediately. For a second Thomas considers the fact that Anna the barista might have ESP or something. What are the chances that today of all days, when he needs to get in Alexander’s good graces, the coffee machine breaks and he took her advice to bring one for him? Today really is looking good so far. Then he opens the door.

He enters the office to find one Alexander Hamilton, shirtless, in the middle of bending down to retrieve something from a lower cabinet. The sound of the door startles him and he jumps, almost hitting his head on the way up. It would be hilarious if Thomas’ mouth didn’t go absolutely bone dry at the sight of him. He glares murderously at Thomas, unfolds the new shirt he just pulled from the depths of storage-hell and shrugs it on. "Can I fucking help you with something, Jefferson, or are you going to stand there all day?" He begins fiddling with the buttons, his hands shaking rapidly under what Thomas can only assume is a deadly combination of caffeine deprivation and hunger. Thomas holds up the files by way of explanation. Hamilton makes an annoyed but accepting sound in the back of his throat and goes back to the buttons.

Thomas doesn’t miss the look of surprised gratitude that Hamilton shoots him when he slides the coffee onto his desk. Curses bubble up in his throat as he fails spectacularly enough for Thomas to decide to take pity on him. He steps into Hamilton’s personal space and watches as the little gremlin automatically takes a step back to maintain a proper distance. "For fuck’s sake, Hamilton, you’re useless without coffee. Just let me help."

Hamilton glares daggers at him, but then relents, most likely due to the coffee waiting for him. It really works wonders. "All yours."

The wording alone makes his throat tight, but he places the files on Hamilton’s desk next to his bribe and steps closer. This time Alexander lets it happen, looking pointedly out of the window as Thomas gets to work. He doesn’t mean to do it, but his fingers accidentally graze soft, supple skin and he watches in fascination as goosebumps spread out over Alexander’s body. Thomas leaves the first two buttons open because clearly Alexander has a back-up shirt but not a tie or suit jacket. It is just like him to think of one but not the other. Thomas assumes the shirt found it's way into his cabinet after one too many nights spent at the office. A shirt will be sweat-drenched by the end of a nightshift, a tie and suit jacket can be worn again.

This will have to do. It’s not a bad look, what with the sleek bun and the sleep-deprived eyes with dark circles that scream ‘I’m trying to see at what point people think I got into a fistfight’.

"Thanks," Hamilton grumbles, rolling up his sleeves. This, it seems, he can do perfectly well on his own.

"Bad run in with the coffee machine?"

"About damn time we replace that thing," Alexander answers, darkly.

"I’m not about to disagree, almost six years speaks of astounding longevity in a coffee machine. Have a look at the files I brought, will you?"

A great, exaggerated sigh of reluctance from Hamilton, who plops down in his chair gracelessly. But he complies, and Thomas watches, impressed by the speed at which his eyes scan through the pages. "This is twenty percent more than you estimated at the meeting, and you haven’t even conferred with I.T. yet," Hamilton mutters, clearly unhappy and annoyed. Maybe Thomas should have waited until this man had a sip of his damn coffee.

Thomas is about to retort, but Oliver enters with fresh mail and- wait, are those roses? Hamilton seems to be equally confused, staring suspiciously at the bouquet that Oliver balances in the crook of his elbow as if it were a baby. "Big day today, Oliver? You finally going to ask out Miss Stoughton from claims?" Alexander smiles fondly at a blushing Oliver. "No, uh, Mr. Hamilton, these are for you."

"Can’t say I’m not flattered, but-"

"Mr. Hamilton!" Oliver’s voice is full of indignation as he protests. "What I mean to say is that these were in the mail for you, that is all. You’re- Mr. Hamilton, you’re my _boss_." He shoves them into Hamilton’s arms, then bolts out of the door. Hamilton is left staring at the roses as though they just called him a ‘filthy immigrant’. How a nice gesture like that manages to offend Hamilton is beyond Thomas' comprehension. Then he narrows his eyes at Thomas. "Did you do this?"

Thomas chokes on a laugh. "I wouldn’t get you roses." And it’s really up for interpretation on Hamilton’s part, because it doesn’t mean Thomas wouldn’t get him flowers. He would probably pick something more subtle though. There is something to be said about the fine art of gifting flowers, and honestly the red rose as a symbol of love is just too overdone and on the nose for Thomas' taste. If he had to pick, perhaps, he thinks he would go with a sunflower. Signifying pure thoughts that Thomas does not have but wishes he did, a symbol of a dedicated adoration of the man in front of him, one he cannot shake. And, if Thomas is honest with himself, he wouldn't be able to resist the allure of the sunflower's alternative meaning, haughtiness, of which Alexander Hamilton possesses a surplus. 

It has been a month since they agreed to put whatever happened between them to rest in favor of a more stable working relationship, and up until this very second, Thomas had been convinced they’d been successful.

"Probably a joke, then," Hamilton mutters, finger tracing the attached note with new tenderness. The curiosity is damn near threatening to tear Thomas apart, but Hamilton doesn’t seem to want to read the note in his presence.

"I’ll look over the financials again, but the report is due in two weeks anyway, you’ll have your answer then. Will that be all?"

Thomas nods, jerkily, and flees the office.

 

+

"Thank you for that enlightening report, Alexander," Washington grumbles, tapping his finger on the desk impatiently once the final slide clicks into place on the board. Thomas would have damn near fallen asleep, if Hamilton’s words had not been so mind-blowingly infuriating. "Are there questions?"

"Sure," Thomas speaks up, "Why the _fuck_ are you taking funding from marketing after I explicitly told you I needed more, rather than less?" He doesn’t bother hiding his anger. A collective groan is barely suppressed amongst the remaining participants of the meeting. Thomas and Hamilton have not gotten better at getting along during meetings.

Out of the corner of his eye he watches the new personal assistant to their head of claims accept a crisp 20 Dollar bill from Henry Knox. They aren’t even subtle about it. 

"Because marketing already has a disproportionately large budget and we need to cover the expenses caused by losses from other departments, Jefferson, as I have just spent over an hour explaining."

"Has it really only been an hour?" Thomas hears Edmund Randolph, head of legal, ask Angelica Schuyler, head of PR. Angelica raises a meaningful eyebrow but chooses to say nothing. She goes back to picking at her skirt.

"Marketing has a _disproportionately large_ budget because it is something worth investing in. Are you going to deny that it has been profitable?"

"I’m not trying to attack you, for fuck’s sake," Hamilton throws his hands into the air, then leans across the desk towards Thomas, who faintly registers a reprimand from Washington about ‘ _Language, son_ ’ before he is drowned by a veritable flood of Hamiltonian rhetoric.

"Marketing is profitable, because we’ve been _able_ to put money into it. We’re picking up plenty of new clients with your strategies, but we need to change tactics. New clients don’t compensate the loss of investors yet, and frankly at this rate it isn’t certain if they will anytime soon. Meanwhile other departments are floundering a lot more. We took a risk with that campaign and it may have backfired more than we initially anticipated in terms of profits, our new inclusive reputation notwithstanding. Now we have to deal with the consequences, like we planned."

"This wasn’t what we fucking planned, Hamilton," Thomas shoves his chair back as he stands to his full height. Unfortunately Hamilton has long stopped being intimidated by the good nine inches he has on him. How could he, when he’s seen Thomas vulnerable, when Thomas has opened up to him and-

"Well we also didn’t fucking plan for you to hire several severely underqualified translators and giving out pay-raises to whoever you liked, but here we are, Jefferson. The old plan is off the table, we’re doing it my way now."

"Oh, we’re always doing it your way, Hamilton. You demand and demand and nobody ever stops you. What’s next? Are you going to cut the intern’s pay? Are you going to make employees bring their own coffee? Can we even afford to replace the machine that exploded in your face two weeks ago?"

"Gentlemen, that’s enough," Washington’s exhausted voice cuts through the debate. Thomas and Hamilton jump apart, having been unaware of how close they got in the heat of the moment. "I had hoped that we might be able to keep the civility the two of you managed to scrounge up out of nowhere in recent months, but perhaps that was naive of me. Why should I expect two of my most important employees to manage not to tear each other into pieces whenever they are at odds? That's just unreasonable, isn't it?"

He sounds exhausted, the poor guy, and Thomas manages to guilt himself into snapping his jaw shut determinedly. Alexander follows suit, although Thomas suspects it is more out of respect for Washington than guilt for the words he just hurled across the room. 

"Alexander, why didn’t you tell me how great the losses were?"

"Didn’t get the info on I.T. until three nights ago," Hamilton grumbles, "We don’t have a head of I.T., Sir, and it’s disrupting the flow of information from them to us. They’re too isolated down there in their little computer caves." And if Hamilton only got that information three days ago, that means he came up with this entire scheme in less than that. No wonder it is so shitty, even if it is impressive that he managed to come up with anything at all, considering the man’s workload. Thomas renews his confidence in the theory that this man does not sleep. Or eat. Or function with anything close to a normal human's efficiency.

"I.T. has been suffering losses?"

"You haven’t seen fit to make them a priority, therefore they have been neglected and expensive to maintain," Hamilton shrugs. "I addressed this issue to you three times in the last two months."

"Perhaps we should cut them off," Washington murmurs, more to himself. And Hamilton, because he apparently hasn’t had hit his quota for screaming matches today, dares to roll his eyes and launch into another tirade.

"That would be the dumbest thing to do out of the vast array of dumb decisions that could be made. The future of insurance is online, sir, we’ve discussed this."

"You’ve made your opinions on the matter clear." Washington's tone is non-committal in a way that lets Thomas know he is looking for alternative proposals. In the end there are none, because no one has even considered the issue yet before Hamilton brought it up. The man delights in being a million steps ahead of everybody else, because it is the only thing that keeps his position as untouchable as it is. If he and Thomas went toe to toe on equal grounds, Thomas is confident he could come out on top. But Hamilton does not play fair, he never has, not in private nor in work-related business. Whether that results in business strategies or managing to remain impartial while Thomas is flooded with feelings he wishes he could kill doesn't seem to matter. What matters is that Hamilton wins, yet again. 

"When does he not do so, sir, especially in departments that don’t concern him?" Thomas can’t resist grumbling. Hamilton shoots him a filthy look, and if Thomas looks closely he thinks he can see his nostrils flaring. Thomas has already been burned by his fire, and he does not dare tempt fate twice. 

+

Dolley is kind enough to give Thomas ample warning before throwing James a hefty celebration for his thirty-second birthday, but unfortunately that does not make the party easier to bear. "I’ve invited quite a few of our high school friends, Thomas," she had bit her lip, "Will that be alright?"

And really, what could Thomas have said other than yes?

Here he is, openly bisexual after the marketing stunt that only ever seems to bite him in the ass, no matter how happy he was with the feedback it received from the general public. If he hears one more variation of the question ‘ _so, you’re gay now?_ ’ from an ex-classmate, he’s going to throw a tantrum. No one ever says something outright homophobic. In this day and age it is generally more accepted to try one’s hand at sneaking in as many subtly disparaging comments as possible, without openly admitting to any prejudice. ‘ _And are you-well, you’ll think me quite silly for being confused-, the man or the woman in this arrangement_?’ ‘ _Well, looking at you, Thomas, I never would have thought you to be gay’_ , ‘ _You certainly never acted gay, if I do say so myself, so you’ll have to forgive my surprise and curiosity’ ‘Oh, have you met John Marshall? He’s like you.’_

Thomas has never felt so attacked and misunderstood in his entire life and it is making him utterly miserable. He wants to talk to someone, wants someone to tell him that it wasn’t a mistake to out himself via marketing campaign. Instead, he finds himself locked in the bathroom with James, who has popped the window open to smoke clandestinely.

"I thought you quit," Thomas says from his spot in the bathtub, bottle of wine in hand. He hasn’t felt this terrible at parties since high school, before he started dating Martha. Oh, Martha. If she were still alive he would have never gotten himself into such a mess.

"I hate when Dolley throws large parties," James groans by way of answer, fingers fluttering rapidly as he finishes off his cigarette. "She still does it because ‘I need to mingle’ and ‘people have expectations’."

"People are selfish pricks, Jemmy, and apparently your wife isn’t exempt from that rule," Thomas frowns.

"Hamilton pissed in your coffee recently, is that it?" James lashes out a bit, then immediately apologizes. This really is like high school, the two of them are still the same loners as they were then. "How did we ever land two cheerleaders, James?" Thomas wonders, furrowing his brow. He takes another deep swig to mull the thought over in his head. James for his part cackles. "We’re rich." 

Thomas looks at his oldest friend and realizes that even though he has deliberately chosen to go along with Thomas' detour away from a conversation about Hamilton, he has not forgotten. 

 "Now that’s a depressing take on marriage."

"Because I’m angry at Dolley right now," James runs a hand over his face as he is wont to whenever something exhausts him. "I’ve talked to her about parties and how I feel about them time and time again. She just doesn’t listen. Or, worse, she does listen and just does her thing anyway. What kind of relationship is that?"

"You’re upset and lashing out, James," Thomas dismisses, "You love Dolley."

"Relationships always require so much compromise, Thomas. Sometimes I wonder if they’re worth it." And damn, if that isn’t a depressing, mopey, teenage topic to breach at midnight. Not to say that Thomas hasn't thought that exact same thing over and over again in recent weeks. 

"Guess I can consider myself lucky my pursuits shall until the end of my days be rather monastic." Thomas is feeling the whiny vibe James is giving off as well now. They’re all set. James laughs at him, bitterly.

"What the fuck happened, Thomas. You told me Hamilton was leaving you alone. Nothing to be done about that, you said."

"I kissed him," Thomas’ confession is undercut by a tortured groan of shame. "Fucking interns put up mistletoe all over the office to fuck with Adams and I got caught beneath one with Alex and he was being so damn sweet, just gave me a chaste kiss on the cheek and I could fucking tell he was a little sad. So I took him by the hand and I kissed him and it was insane."

Thomas takes a moment, closes his eyes, recalls in vivid memory how he pressed Alexander Hamilton against the doorframe and was about two seconds away from desecrating the break room without a hint of a guilty conscience.

"And?" James prompts, eyes caught somewhere between fascination and morbid curiosity. The writer in him is hungering for a good story. Thomas laughs, miserably.

"Told him to tell me what he wanted, told him I made _my_ intentions clear. Followed your dumb ass advice for once. Then he sought me out at the Laurens-Mulligan engagement party and basically told me that _yeah, there might actually be something more between us_ , but I’m just not fucking worth it-"

"I doubt he said that." James deadpans. Thomas grumbles.

"Not verbatim, but that was the essence of it."

"Humor me. What did he say exactly?"

"That all his relationships have gone up into flames and he couldn’t bear working with me after we inevitably turned to dust. He’s not even _willing_ _to try_." Thomas whines, and yeah, he knows he sounds fucking pathetic, but that’s just fitting for this evening’s theme. He was pathetic in high school and he is pathetic now. He's always pathetic when his feelings get involved. At least Martha had the decency of reciprocating, but Thomas thinks that even if she didn't, she would have been gentler with him than Hamilton. They are nothing alike. 

"It seems to me that the crux of the whole debacle lies with Hamilton, not you, Thomas," James pinches the bridge of his nose, rummaging around for a second cigarette which Thomas lights for him, dutifully.

"And your whole debacle lies in being unwilling to tell Dolley in certain terms that you’re pissed off. You just duck around the issue all ‘next time, honey, perhaps let’s invite fewer people’ or ‘too many people just exhaust me’."

"We’re not talking about me right now."

"We only ever talk about me." Thomas retorts, rolling his eyes. "I hate feeling like I’m missing everything that is going on in your life."

"You’re not missing much," James frowns. "I try and fail at being a decent father, and meanwhile my editor and publisher are hounding me to pump out another story that won't come to my head. I'm peachy."

They are interrupted by a sharp knock to the bathroom door.

"Thomas? James? I know you’re in there," Dolley’s voice sounds pissed. Thomas and James exchange panicked looks for a second. In keeping with their high school nostalgia, Thomas tosses James – currently frantically putting out the cigarette and tossing the stub out of the window- a bottle of mouthwash and sprays him with deodorant before Thomas wheels him out of their surprisingly accommodating bathroom.

"Think I’m just gonna go lie down for a second. Guest room available?" Thomas is quick to leg it out of there, especially when Dolley is looking more like a stern parent than a wife. James throws him a betrayed look that Thomas ignores. Tonight has been exhausting enough. 

He needs to talk to someone.

He needs someone who will understand what he is going through. Briefly, he considers John Laurens. John is gay, John is from a conservative family just like him. John would understand. He texts him a brief 'can you talk' that results in John's reply less than a minute later. 

_At the club with Herc, call you in the morning._

It occurs to Thomas that while he may have repaired the worst of the damage his friendship with John Laurens has taken over the years, they aren't at a level yet where they can comfortably talk about this stuff to one another. For one, Thomas is bad about opening up to people. He hasn't opened up to John since John was still in high school. No, in recent years, the only truly honest conversations he has had about himself were with James, currently busy being scolded and liable to exasparated eyerolls when confronted with Thomas' admittedly dramatic lamentations, and, regretfully, Hamilton. 

 _Are you awake? I need to talk._ He shoots off the text to Alexander without thinking it through, then spends the five seconds before he gets a reply chewing through his lower lip.

_Alexander’s mouth is busy right now._

Then he does the dumbest thing he could ever do. He calls Hamilton.

The call goes through deceptively quickly and Thomas doesn’t miss how out of breath he sounds. " _Merde, non_ , he probably just wants to talk about the finance plan some more-"

There’s sounds that aren’t from Alexander, a voice that sounds distantly familiar. ‘Oh, _p_ _utain. Hé, connard, n’ârrete pas. Merde, Alex, je vais t’assasiner si tu-ah, oui, oui, comme ca, déchire-moi, detruis-moi._ ’

"Why the fuck did you pick up if you were in the middle of something?" Thomas replies, snottily, because otherwise he is just about ready to die of embarrassment at the sheer desperate arousal that keeps him from ending the call.

"What? Fuck, _Thomas_?" Alexander only now seems to hear him, letting out a strangled groan that goes right to Thomas’ dick. There’s a scuffle and protests in French, then Alex’s voice is closer to the phone. "Hold on." He addresses Thomas before apparently trying and failing to cover the phone. " _Merde, salope, pourquoi as-tu fait ca,_ huh? Why’d you pick up the phone? I fucking told you not to."

" _Non, la question est pou_ _rquoi Thomas-merde, Alex, tu baises comme un dieu, oh putain –Pourquoi il te rapelle si tard_?"

" _Dégage, putain_."

Thomas doesn’t miss the high keening noise in the background, definitely not belonging to Alexander. No, unfortunately Thomas is intimately acquainted with the cacophany of sounds Alexander employs in the bedroom. ‘ _Je vais me baigner, bite molle’_ an overwhelmingly satisfied French voice announces, and for a second Thomas hears a scuffle. " _Va te faire cuire le cul, branleur_ ," Alexander calls after the sound of retreating footsteps.

"What the hell was that?" Thomas hisses.

"I don’t fucking know, the phone started ringing and they just picked it up even though I told them not to. God, I’m so sorry you had to hear that."

He doesn't ask why Thomas didn't hang up, and Thomas is grateful for that small mercy.

"My ears are bleeding. Why did they know who I was? Who was that- Oh my god, was that Lafayette?" Thomas asks, horrified. Alexander chortles, and Thomas hears sheets rustling. Alex is presumably stretching. The thought hits Thomas that there was no sound of Alexander’s orgasm, if he had one. Is he still hard?

"Their flight came in like two hours ago, yeah," Alexander clears his throat.

"And the two of you-" Thomas wonders, stutters incoherently. Alexander laughs. "They put me on the phone with Adrienne, who assured me in quite explicit detail that she was more than willing to lend them to me for a few nights."

"Holy shit, that," Thomas stutters again, "That didn’t sound like a friendly affair."

"That little _piece de merde_ definitely got off on having you as an audience though. Pair that with a degradation kink and voilá, you have Gilbert de Large Baguette."

"Did you get off on it too?" Thomas can’t help but ask. There’s a slight whimper on the other end and then unbearable silence. Thomas imagines Alexander biting his lip to stop any sounds from coming out, such a stark contrast to the verbal abuse he just hurled at Gilbert.

"Are you drunk, Thomas?"

"Drunk and hiding in James’ spare bedroom, yeah." His bottle of wine lies abandoned in the bathroom, and he longs for it now. But getting up in his predicament is not the best idea, and so he resigns himself to wishful thinking about the sauvignon blanc he managed to neglect.

"Drunk enough that there’s a good chance you’ll forget this whole interlude happened, come the morning?"

"Wishful thinking, Alex." Thomas chuckles. "But drunk enough to forego listening to the voice of reason in my head that told me to end the call as soon as someone started moaning."

"Unfortunate," Alex sighs on the other end.

"You know," Thomas starts, lying on the lonely bed in James’ guest bedroom, listening to Alexander’s unsteady breaths, "I didn’t hear you."

There's a pregnant pause between the two of them, as the air fills with hesitant sexual tension both parties have tried to kept buried. 

"Are you upset I didn’t put on a show the way Gilbert did? I should think they were loud enough for the both of us."

"Maybe so," Thomas almost purrs, unsure just what the alcohol is doing to him, "But correct me if I’m wrong, you didn’t come. Alex, are you still hard, _mon chaton_?" Is this the alcohol speaking, or is the alcohol giving him the courage to voice what he really wants to say?

"Yes," Alex breathes out, hesitantly. "Thomas, don’t say something you’re going to regret come the morning."

"For the record, I’m still fucking pissed at your financial betrayal," Thomas assures him, "But that isn’t why I called."

"Oh, yeah, you definitely know how to sweet talk a guy, _mon chér_. By all means, tell me more. At this rate I’ll be falling asleep in a minute. Is that your aim?"

"You know as well as I do how good I can make it for you, Alex. You know how easily I can have you begging for me with just a few selective touches." Bold words from Thomas, he knows, considering they've only consummated their passions a single time, but the stuff of his fantasies is very present in his mind and mingles with his memories.

There’s a mix of anticipation and challenge in Alexander’s voice when he speaks."Is that so?" 

"Yeah," Thomas murmurs, glancing towards the door. He could get up and lock it. But he is comfortable right now, one hand distractedly palming his cock through the thin cloth of his dress pants.

"What would-Wait, Thomas, are you sure you want to do this?"

"‘This’ being a mutual orgasm through the phone?" Thomas clears his throat, "Probably isn’t the best idea. And it isn’t why I called in the first place. But now that I’ve got you all worked up on the other end I can’t think of anything else."

"Welcome to my world," Alexander sighs dejectedly on the other end, "I haven’t thought of anything else since you kissed me." There’s a cut off whimper that Thomas exhalts in.

Maybe at one in the morning they can pretend nothing else exists. Thomas is certainly willing. All he can think about right now is Alex. Not the screaming matches of meetings past, not the red roses he seems to receive from third parties. Just Alex. 

"I wanted to do so much more than kiss you, Alex," Thomas moans, "God, I wanted to fuck you against that door until you saw stars."

"Fuck, why didn’t you?" Alex’s voice sounds strangled, and Thomas hears proof of his activities. Wet, rushed sounds of pleasure betray how far gone both of them are. Thomas knows exactly why he stopped, exactly like how he knows that what they’re doing right now is anything but a good idea.

But he’s drunk, his inhibitions are basically gone and he is lonely. So much for monastic pursuits.

"Couldn’t do what I wanted to do to you in the break room. Would you have been able to work there, knowing I had you bent over every possible surface? I would have fucked you so good, Alex, so hard, you would have felt it for days afterwards."

"Oh, shit," Alex stutters, "I really wanted you to. Fuck, Thomas, fuck, fuck, fuck-" There’s a cut off scream, and Thomas imagines Alexander stuffing his fist into his mouth to keep from being too loud. The thought of Alex losing it sends Thomas right over the edge with him.

For a few seconds, neither man says anything. It gives Thomas time to stop the spinning in his head. Normal breaths. Normal breaths.

"We’re talking when I am sober," Thomas declares imperiously. Then he hangs up.

What the fuck did he just do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The FACTS:  
> \- Oliver Wolcott Jr. married a Miss Elizabeth Stoughton  
> -Oliver Wolcott Jr. and Adams also weren't big fans of one another after he took office, after he and Hamilton had their falling out. Strangely, Adams decided to keep a cabinet that Washington filled with hamilton-lovers, and thus he often found himself complaining about how all of his cabinet members hated him and that they were traitors & stuff.  
> -'Severely unqualified translators' refers to when secretary of state TJ hired Freneu, who ran a controversial paper that delighted in dragging AHAMS name through the mud, as a translator even though he spoke less languages than TJ himself and less well too. He was a petty little bitch, that TJ, and needed a way to supplement the income of one of his writing tools.  
> -Gilbert and Adrienne enjoyed a very devoted marriage, but he was far from faithful. Funnily enough, when Abigail Adams and her daughter dined at L'hôtel de Lafayette in Paris, they remarked on Adrienne's devotion to her husband with surprise. Infidelity was very en vogue in french marriages, and to find a french wife pleased with and by her husband was apparently a VERY STRANGE AND UNIQUE THING INDEED. Anywho, there are two affairs that we know of, and historians are pretty certain that Adrienne knew of them as well because Gilbert frequently mentioned the 'attentions of ladies' in his letters to her or remarked on how beautiful he found certain women. Either she did not mind or she forced herself not to mind, but the fact remains that he was not faithful - a man of his time. So, in this case, they are non-exclusive because I won't bring cheating into this fic :D And there is no question about how much they loved each other. Gilbert wrote about his amorous connections 'it is more plesant for me to speak of the tender and stable affection that I never cease to feel for the woman whom I had the good fortune to marry' & Adrienne FOLLOWED HIM INTO IMPRISONMENT TO BE WITH HIM. Seriously, they were adorable. They married as teenagers & remained together for all their lives. 10 out of 10 marriage, considering the times.  
> -John Marshall was the fourth Chief Justice of the US and I really just name-dropped him here because I'm a filthy slut for mentioning more Johns. Can't resist that meme of my own creation. He served from 1801-1835, which definitely includes TJ's tenure, so I feel it justified. 
> 
> The FRENCH:  
> -Putain. Hé, connard, n’ârrete pas. Merde, Alex, je vais t’assasiner si tu-ah, oui, oui, comme ca, déchire-moi, detruis-moi. -> Bitch, oi, idiot, don't stop. Shit, Alex, I'm going to kill you if you- oh, yes, yes, like that, tear me apart, destroy me  
> -Merde, salope, pourquoi as-tu fait ca -> Shit, slut, why'd you do that?  
> -Non, la question est pourquoi Thomas-merde, Alex, tu baises comme un dieu, oh putain –Pourquoi il te rapelle si tard? -> No, the question is why Thomas - shit, Alex, you fuck like a god, oh shit - why is he calling you this late?  
> \- dégage -> fuck off, basically.  
> -Je vais me baigner, bite molle -> I'm going to take a bath, limp dick ..it's a french insult, it's a thing, trust me.  
> -Va te faire cuire le cul, branleur -> literally: Go cook your own arse, wanker, but the meaning is more along the lines of go fuck yourself. 
> 
> Gilbert is a little profanity-spewing non-binary pal :D
> 
> Please take the time to comment or give a kudos if you enjoyed it, I greatly appreciate feedback <3


	2. I couldn't undo it if I tried

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gilbert is an outrageously sexual person  
> Discover everyone's favorite flavor of ice cream and try to interpret their character.  
> Thomas and Alex talk, at last, like, once. It's sweet, you'll love it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am in love with all of you guys for your beautiful and supportive comments <3 Marry me, then we can have all the weddings in this series that you want lol. 
> 
> Ft. A new spin on my John meme

Ambush.

There’s no other word for this that could adequately describe this situation. This is an ambush, Thomas thinks as he enters the break room to stow his lunch away, only to come face to face with one immoderately grinning Marquis. ( _"Oh, mais mon cher Thomas, il n’y a plus des aristocrates ici, pas depuis_ _-")_

It is that same term of endearment that he hears now, as Gilbert comes towards him to kiss his cheeks enthusiastically. Thomas reciprocates on instinct, not because he is particularly delighted to see them after what he witnessed between Alexander and their mutual friend this weekend.

"Good morning, Gilbert, how are you settling in?"

"Oh, you cannot believe how _magnifique_ it is to be back in my adopted country, _mon ami_. I am very much looking forward to working with all of you for the next six months. And to attend a few weddings, I have heard. I am glad that monsieur Church has finally popped the question, and more so that two of my best friends have decided to join in un-holy matrimony, _n'est-ce pas_ , Laurens?"

Laurens winks from his table. 

"We’re glad to have you," Thomas returns, partly because it is true and partly because he doesn’t know what else to say when half the senior staff is watching him. What he would like to say is something along the lines of: _‘Why did you fuck Hamilton?’_ or ‘ _Why did you pick up the phone so I could hear you orgasm?’_ , maybe alternatively ' _Why did you feel the need to let me in on the fact that you have a humiliation kink?_ ' but he is fully aware that such conversations are not work-appropriate, so he desists.

Hamilton sits with John Laurens and Angelica at one of the desks, chewing on his lip like a madman as he pointedly keeps his gaze lowered. John takes his time observing both Alexander and Thomas. If he doesn’t know for certain that something went down, he certainly has his suspicions. Angelica is texting, pointedly unaware of her surroundings as she shakes her head fondly while reading whatever message just arrived underscored by an obnoxious ‘ping’.

"Ah, _oui_ , I would hope so," Gilbert flashes him a grin. Further conversation comes to a halt as a harried looking young man comes through the door carrying coolers. Gilbert grins cheerfully before they beckon the newcomer close. "Thomas, have you met my assistant yet? _Non_? This is Jean-Joseph Soubadère de Gimat. Jean, this is Thomas Jefferson."

Jean-Joseph, by all accounts smiling pleasantly, proffers a hand to Thomas and says, "Please, _monsieur_ , call me John."

Thomas returns his smile wearily, feeling a headache begin to form, "You know, I’d really rather not. Let’s stick to Jean, ok? _C’est primordial que je tente parler Français, parfois_."

" _Ah, mais vous parlez notre langue avec un accent si charmant, monsieur Jefferson_!" Jean exclaims and they leave it at that.

"Then we can get to the treats I brought, _oui? Oh, pardonne-moi_ , Jean, the treats you brought here, where are my manners? I have brought, uh, how you say – _glace_? Ah, Ice cream. My English flees me at moments most inopportune, it seems," Gilbert chuckles, already beginning to open the coolers. They gather the rest of their friends closer to the table. Like raccoons, Thomas thinks, John Laurens and Hamilton peek inside of the box. Laurens is the first to snatch out a small tub, grinning when he sees it is some abomination of mint ice cream. (Edible toothpaste, in Thomas’ opinion, but John is aware of this. This discourse between them has its origins over a decade ago.) Angelica takes chocolate, John Adams takes strawberry, Edmund Randolph decides on cookies  & cream. Hamilton is still searching. Gilbert focuses their eyes on him, grinning suggestively. Thomas knows by now that this is never a sign of good things to come.

"Now what, I wonder, is dear Thomas’ favorite flavor?"

"Vanilla."

Hamilton says it off-handedly, almost like he hadn’t realized he was saying it. It reminds Thomas strangely of someone recalling a piece of trivia with unwavering certainty. He is right, and if Thomas strains his memory he thinks he remembers mentioning it in passing once, during a debate about iced coffee. It earns Alexander strongly suspicious looks from Laurens, but he doesn’t notice, too busy scouring the cooler for a flavor he will like.

"Yes," Gilbert nods, considering this, "I agree that Thomas would be rather tame in the bedroom, but I was talking about ice cream."

Alexander pulls his head up sharply, glaring at Gilbert for a hot second before tossing a small tub of vanilla ice cream in Thomas’ direction. The room breaks out in good natured laughter, and now, Thomas thinks, would be a good time to remind everyone of what they learned in the seminar on sexual harassment last year and that he would be happy to ask Washington to organize a refresher course, but he is still a little thrown by the certainty of Alexander’s words.

"Thanks," Thomas manages to say, through his confusion. It seems pathetic - to place so high a stake in Hamilton remembering a detail that is by all accounts truly inconsequential, but Thomas wastes a lot of thought on it anyway.

(Hamilton pulls out a tub of mango, Thomas observes, and wonders if anyone truly likes the artificial sweetness of fruit in ice cream or if that was merely the last tub left.)

"Now, Thomas, why don’t we talk? I feel we have a lot of catching up to do, _entre nous, n’est-ce pas_?"

"We’re at work, Gilbert," Thomas frowns, mainly because he knows _that_ particular conversation is one he wants to avoid.

" _Plus tard, alors? J’espère que tu n’es pas trop méchant. C’était plus ma faute que la faute de notre ami_."

A sigh. Nothing to be done. Gilbert is, above all, a peace-loving individual, and it is clear to Thomas that underneath all their bravura they would feel quite bad if they actually hurt someone they claim to care about.

“Later,” Thomas agrees, “I’ll come by your office when I’m done and then we can talk about exactly how mad I am at you and how much of it is your own fault.”

+

He assumes that Hamilton only slinks into his office close to noon because his intern forced him to take a break, as he arrives with coffee for the both of them and a bag Thomas assumes is supposed to contain lunch.

"Hey," his voice is hesitant as he closes the door behind him. Thomas just barely manages to catch a very skeptical look from Albert, his respective intern, before they are alone.

"First of all, I am _so_ sorry-" Alexander begins, fingers fluttering after he sets the gifts down on the desk and Thomas has taken one pastry for himself. Nothing he does could hide the nervousness on his face, so apparently he has chosen not to bother.

"Fuck that. I participated of my own volition-"

"I know," Alexander agrees hastily, nodding to underscore his knowledge, "But you were drunk, and it was a shitty thing of me to encourage, considering your feelings-"

It seems neither of them will get a full sentence out like this.

"It’s not like that anymore," Thomas says with decided finality. (Not quite a lie, considering it is much, much worse now.) Alexander looks up, breath caught in his throat. God, he looks wrecked. There’s always a chance that Alex just forgot to take care of himself over the weekend, foregoing sleep in favor of whatever caught his eye. (Gilbert, Thomas thinks petulantly, Gilbert caught his eye and Gilbert probably kept him up all weekend, because they deal in extremes and don’t know enough about Alexander’s stupid, self-destructive lifestyle habits-)

"It isn’t?"

"I’ve worked through it," Thomas says, stretching the truth. He’s thought it _over_ many, many times, but working through it implies, quite misleadingly, that he has come to a satisfactory conclusion of his dilemma, and that is not the case. "The attraction is obviously still there. I think both of us would have trouble denying that."

He feels caught by Alexander’s stare, so he plays with his pen to distract himself. It’s a very obvious tell, but the other choice is admitting right here that he still wants something more with Alexander and he just really isn’t brave enough for that.

"Okay," Hamilton takes a deep breath, nods, "That’s good. Very good. May I take a seat?"

"Be my guest."

"Thank you."

The silence hangs between them for a few moments after he has sat down.

"Why did you call me at one in the morning?" Alexander gets straight to the point, in a very unusually unverbose manner.

"I needed to talk to someone who understood," Thomas sighs. John did end up calling him at breakfast, but he was having breakfast with James and Dolley and didn’t want to sully that pleasant occasion by moping about his anxieties, so he cut the call short. (James would have been sympathetic, as would Dolley, he knows that. But they’re both so alarmingly heterosexual that they wouldn’t understand. Lord knows they would try, but it just wouldn’t be the same.)

Alexander looks mildly surprised, but his eyes are attentive as he reaches for his coffee.

"Dolley threw James a very Virginia-centric birthday party, you know, old classmates and the like. The first I attended like it since coming out, and-" Thomas takes a deep breath, because talking about the stuff that really gets to him like this is hard and with Alexander it’s always a toss-up how he will react. "A lot of people said some dumb shit."

He hears an angry huff and looks up to bear witness to the sheer outrage on Alexander’s face. "What did they say?"

"Don’t make me repeat it," Thomas runs a hand over his face, awkwardly trying to regain some control of his faculties. "It wasn’t anything quite so bad, just ignorant insults disguised as ‘curiosity’ or whatever, but it builds up, you know? One comment is easy enough to shrug off but they just kept building the entire evening and eventually it just- it was too much."

He dares to look up from the hands he has been monologue-ing at and waits for Alexander’s response.

"Hence the drunkenness and the hiding."

Thomas nods. In a way he is glad that Alexander does not question the fact that Thomas came to him with such issues.

"I’m sorry that happened to you," Alexander begins, frowning. "Does it make you regret coming out?"

Now that isn’t the reaction he expected, but Alex has been known to throw curveballs when Thomas anticipates a slider or whatever. (He never played baseball, he doesn’t know the terminology. James did, and well too, before his accident.)

"Not usually. I am almost ashamed to admit it, but all I could think that night was how much easier things would have been if I had just stayed _in_ , for lack of a better word. But then I go to work with a wonderfully diverse and accepting group of people – hell, even Adams keeps his vaguely prejudiced commentary to himself nowadays, and it makes me question everything again."

A hum from Alexander, and then he gets up. He circles around the desk and Thomas curses his traitor heart for gaining frequency as he moves Thomas’ chair to the side for access to his computer. Ten seconds later he has the pictures from the campaign up on the screen.

"Look at you," he prompts, and Thomas does.

"You’re happy in that picture. Really happy. Your eyes crinkle at the corner like they really only do when you’re genuinely smiling, and you are. _That_ is who you are, Thomas. There’s always going to be assholes that misunderstand or are willfully cruel to you and, hey, I get it - that _sucks_.  Not everybody kicks the closet door down guns blazing and ready to take on the world. You have doubts, that is fine. But coming out was good for you, you said so yourself. Those people at the party? You don’t have to put up with them if you don’t want to. You aren’t obligated to keep in cordial contact with anyone that makes you feel like shit. But the people closest to you? Those you see every day? Those who you _want_ to see every day? They are what matters more, and they love you greatly, alright?"

Thomas bites the inside of his cheek. His head his pounding, the rush of blood in his head is making him dizzy. Still, he looks sideways at Alexander and smiles. "Thank you."

For his part, Alex looks taken aback, but smiles in return. It is a soft and unguarded thing, that smile. "Hey, don’t mention it. Anybody with a shred of decency would have told you the same thing. Not that I have many shreds of decency, but like, some. You know?"

"Still," Thomas protests gently, "Thank you."

"Yeah, anytime."

Alexander leaves with his pastry bag one cinnamon roll lighter, and Thomas remains with his heart (and yeah, alright, his stomach) a little fuller.

+

Gilbert smiles brightly when Thomas knocks on their office door, and Angelica, who had been sitting and talking with them, smiles as well before she excuses herself with two air kisses to their favorite Frenchperson and one kiss on Thomas’ cheek. She’s been very busy recently, but he supposes that is to be expected. He wonders if the groom-to-be is faring any better.

"A little birdie told me you had lunch with my dear Alex today," his voice is hopeful as he speaks.

"Nothing like you might think, Gilbert. There’s a conversation about boundaries we need to have, and answering a call from me that, for the record, wasn’t intended for you, whilst you were fucking Hamilton, is a long way out of those boundaries."

"Ah," Gilbert beams, "But it was Alex doing the fucking, so he was quite too busy to reach for the phone, whereas I-"

"That is precisely the kind of point I was making," Thomas pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. "I do not need to know in which constellations you consummate whatever new level of friendship you two have reached."

Gilbert hums as they rest their chin on a propped up hand. "I may have, uh, slinked off to the bathroom after he had me, but even from there I heard the evidence that it was not quite a business call you were after. Forgive me for being presumptuous, but you and Alex, you are, _vous, euh, passez la casserole, non_? You fuck?"

"Oh my god," Thomas chokes on air. " _What_?"

"And I myself witnessed the connection between you two earlier today, so I must assume that your issue was with me. I understand that perhaps you are not comfortable with sharing him, but when I discussed our liaison with him prior to starting he assured me there was nothing impeding our right to _s’envoyer en l’air_."

"Gilbert," Thomas interrupts their increasingly frantic lamentations. "Hamilton and I aren’t doing the deed, however many clever idioms you decide to try for it."

" _Non, mais c’est_ bullshit."

"I promise you, we aren’t."

Gilbert studies him for a long while. Generally, because they are still quite young, people tend to dismiss them as naïve. (Thomas remembers keenly, when they were still an intern, how a certain detractor of Washington’s, then not yet the uncontested boss he is now, had attempted to enlist Gilbert’s help to land a spot at the top. Fuck Conway for trying to exploit Gilbert’s openness, Thomas thinks angrily. Truthfully he is glad that Conway has not worked in the States in years.) In reality, Gilbert is quite astute, only they enjoy giving everyone the benefit of the doubt, even those undeserving of it. Which is why, right now, they are not buying any part of Thomas’ denial.

"Aha, okay. Please, explain to me then. I know I did not misread the attraction."

Thomas really should check in with Alexander before telling anyone about the strange thing between them, but Gilbert’s loyalty will mean they will keep their mouth shut, juicy gossip or not. They are fully aware of the company policy.

"We had a drunken one-night-stand at a wedding a year ago, before I started working here. We work together now. Benedict Arnold’s wife, I’m not sure if you remember her? Peggy Shippen? I think she was an intern with you? Anyway, she left him for John André, from Legal? Arnold kicked up a huge fuss about it and just straight up left the company. Quitting like that nearly sent the company over, and so Washington has made it clear that inter-office relations will not be tolerated. Which is something you know - so it surprises me that you would start something with Hamilton."

Gilbert nods, as if Thomas’ explanation makes sense. "I do not believe that is all, _mon ami_ , but I will not force you to expound on a topic you wish to close off to me. As for Alexander and myself, my immediate employer is Conrard Gérard, and then Monsieur Capet. We are sister companies, _c’est correct, mais_ Alexander and I are not colleagues in that sense, and so, I have been assured, it is perfectly allowed. Adrienne, my darling, did some research."

The switch to more pleasant topics is easy after that. There is little Gilbert loves more than their sweet Adrienne, and they can go on about her for hours.

 

+

Brunch with James is one of Thomas’ favorite things to do. Today this favorite thing is obscured by the presence of another, less enjoyable James. Monroe is useful, undoubtedly, and Jemmy set up this meeting with good reason, but Thomas would prefer to just sit and talk with his friend.

Instead, this: "He’s been spending an awful lot of time with that Reynolds woman from my office. Honestly, he’s down with us almost every day, and to me that reeks of scandal. Why would the head of Finance be down in I.T. all the time?"

"Oh, I don’t know, James," Thomas sighs, reaching to the side to cover Jemmy’s ears when talking of internal business, "Perhaps because I.T. is flailing and impeding the success of the company? And perhaps, astoundingly, it is his job to figure out how to deal with the losses you incur?"

His best friend shrugs his hands away from him, throwing around an irritated glance.

"And since when are you quick to defend anything that man does?" Monroe wants to know, looking suspicious. One heavy eye-roll later, Thomas decides that it isn’t worth it to argue about that.

"Weren’t we here for something else?"

Monroe gives him a long look, probably dying to pursue the scent of scandal he now got a whiff of, but ultimately deciding to play along. "Yes. The head of I.T. position."

"You heard about that already?"

"Interns are chatty," Monroe shrugs, and it sounds almost like a deliberate jab at Thomas. Albert disdains Monroe, Thomas knows. Once upon a time Monroe maybe-deliberately misspoke and called him by a name that sounded distantly similar, but was bound to conjure his disdain. ("He was Austrian, Mr. Jefferson!" Albert had grumbled, "‘ _Ch bin Schwoizer, verdammt_.")

But there are other interns, younger, more impressionable ones. And if Gilbert had heard about them having lunch together, then everybody else must also know about how frequently they go see one another. Sure, they’ve done nothing wrong, up until last weekend, but rumors only grow.

"And I suppose this means you’d like the position?"

"It comes with a decent salary," Monroe answers, leaning back in his chair like a contentedly stretching predator.

"It comes with a decent salary if Hamilton decides he can manage to allot one, all things considered," Thomas retorts.

"Does that not sicken you? That one man has so much power? Do you not think that perhaps Washington would do well to consider someone else’s ideas for a change?"

Monroe, on the right path though he may be, has never sat in on a meeting with Washington, that much is clear. To the rest of the company, their president and his acolyte present a united front, but Thomas knows well how strained that relationship can get. Alexander is often quite certain of his ideas and cannot be moved to compromise often, whereas Washington frowns upon having his authority undermined, no matter if it is done by his favorite. Still, Monroe is unfortunately right, there is an undue influence where Hamilton is concerned, and the man wields more power than perhaps he should.

"What do you think I can do?"

"I’ll apply for the position, once word is out, of course. But you hold some sway with Washington, and your recommendation is sure to leave an impression, at least."

Hm.

+

"Oliver, let me in," Thomas growls, trying for intimidating in front of Alexander’s office, two weeks later.

"He isn’t inside, and he said not to let you in until he returns. I hate to say it, but he’s right not to. Sorry, sir, I get that you’re angry about the last meeting, but he is still in I.T. and he asked me to make sure you wait."

"When did you grow a backbone, Oliver?"

"Mr. Hamilton gave me a talk about it after I let you in here the last three times," Oliver raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms. Thomas huffs, then catches one his newer interns making his way towards him and pressing something into Oliver’s hand, meaningfully. Oliver closes his fist around it, nods towards the intern - "Timothy." – and it disappears inside his tailored pocket. Something is underfoot here.

He hears Alexander before he sees him, rounding the corner whilst talking animatedly to McHenry, from Knox’s department. McHenry too nods at Oliver. Immediately Oliver retrieves whatever was in his pocket and gives it to him. The object disappears again before Thomas can catch a glimpse of it. Hamilton notices it too.

"And what are you boys up to? Mr. Pickering just walked by and he looked borderline devilish."

Oliver licks his lips but says nothing, only offers Hamilton a slightly rueful smile.

"I see," he nods, "Well, there’s something to be said for plausible deniability. Off you go, I’ll be very disappointed if I don’t hear screaming by the end of it."

"What was that all about?" Thomas asks as Alexander holds the door for him.

"I am as excited as you are to find out. What do you want?"

"I need a favor," Thomas sighs, because while, yes, Washington listened attentively when he tried to convincingly extoll the virtues of one James Monroe, he didn’t seem convinced.

"I can’t believe you think you’re in any position to ask for favors after that meeting."

Ah yes, the screaming match that morning was legendary. Thomas may have started it, but Adams got involved and that is likely what set Hamilton off completely. There is more of a power discrepancy, and while Alexander surely won’t let that stop him from fighting with all the words in his possession, it does complicate the issue. Adams is in a position to fire Hamilton, if Washington ever decides to end his patronage. 

"Tell me." Hamilton demands, after he takes a long sip of – wait, is he drinking water? That’s new. Then the thermos of coffee appears from out of his desk cabinet. That’s more like it.

"I want you to recommend Monroe as head of I.T." Cautiously, Thomas waits until Alexander has set down the cup of coffee he just poured himself, because as expected the gremlin looks close to pushing an aneurysm or two.

"Monroe." He repeats, guffawing. "You want me to recommend the guy that wrote sixteen blog posts on why I am a piece of shit? I mean, it would have been easier to swallow if his writing was in any way eloquent, but it was laced through with too much rage and too little finesse and the whole thing was just very painful, from a literary perspective."

"Yes." Thomas says, leaning forward, "And don’t pretend like you didn’t take your sweet time thoroughly responding to said blog posts."

"What do I get from it?" The question is posed after considerable time spent staring at one another. Thomas is not naïve enough to assume this means Alexander has relented or is in any way willing to budge.

Ah, here comes the tricky part. Briefly, they are both shocked by a frustrated scream that resonates across the office. "Who the fuck replaced the sugar packet for my damn coffee with salt, you heathens?" Adams' voice cuts off when Oliver appears to close the door with a not-entirely apologetic smile playing on his young face. Alexander covers his mouth with his hand to avoid laughing, but Thomas can see the amusement in his eyes when he reminds himself of 'plausible deniability' in a tight whisper. 

"A kiss on the cheek?" Thomas smiles, striving for light-heartedness. Alexander snorts.

"Hilarious. Agree to my financial plan."

"No," Thomas frowns, "No quid pro quo like last time. I compromised to get the budget I have right now. I won’t compromise again just to keep it."

"Then I guess we don’t really need a head of I.T. that will ask for the salary Monroe asks for, do we? There are candidates that are willing to work for the same pay they already receive, and your man is not one of them. Maybe ask him to lower his demands, first."

"Would it kill you to do this one thing for me?"

"That is _not_ fair, Thomas," Alexander retorts, voice rising but trying to remain polite. "You know that if it were a personal thing, I would be there for you. I, for one, thought we established that. But what you’re asking for affects the company, not you, not me. I will not be _guilted_ out of doing my job right so you can do your buddy a solid."

Thomas knows he overstepped with that last line, and he is about to admit it, only there’s a knock on the door and Eliza Schuyler is entering the office after being welcomed inside.

"Oh, hello, Thomas!" That woman is too damn charming for her own good, Thomas thinks as they exchange cheek kisses. "Alex, are you done here?"

"I don’t know yet," he responds, giving Thomas a questioning look.

"Yeah," Thomas sighs, "We’re done. Just, well, just please consider what I’ve said. Not just right now, but about my budget in general."

Alexander nods. Thomas makes to leave, but is stopped by Eliza, insisting on catching up. And then, as if she forgot, she pulls something out of her bag. A pink Camellia. The meaning comes to Thomas’ head unbidden. Longing. Admiration.

"Swung by for a visit to I.T. first, was told to deliver this to you."

Alexander chuckles, and accepts the flower gratefully.

"And how was your friend in I.T., my dearest Betsey?"

"I shall tell you all about her once we arrive at dinner."

Somehow Thomas manages conversation for another ten minutes and then excuses himself smoothly.

+

_Power is given only to him who dares to stoop and take it ... one must have the courage to dare._

Thomas reads, going through one of his most-loved editions of Crime and Punishment, picking out sections he marked and annotated, words he has read over and over again. He’s done with the work he took home for the weekend, he is done with dinner – the dishes are all washed.

It’s been a while since he has taken an entire evening off to just read. Normally he squeezes in his reading whenever he can. While commuting, while waiting at the doctor’s office, while getting lunch somewhere alone. Tonight, he has to take the time to read for himself, because he needs comfort.

This was his book, with Martha. He can still imagine her voice as she reads it to him, even though her other words often elude him these days. It has simply been too long, but to watch some of the videos he has of her would be too painful for tonight. It wouldn’t make him feel better, he knows. It would just make him miss her.

Reading is better, because the soothing association has stayed behind even if she has left.

 _Truly great men must, I think, experience great sorrow on the earth_.

He smiles, a little bitterly, and strokes the page in remembrance. Sorrows, indeed. A sudden notification on his phone makes him flinch. It leaves him with a papercut, one or two drops of blood now adorn the page he has open. Fuck. It’s past midnight, who on earth is texting him? Can’t be James. He and Dolley go to bed at nine, even if they don’t sleep their phones are turned off.

It’s Hamilton. Thomas still sees the last text exchanged. _Alexander’s mouth is busy right now._ Fuck off, Gilbert, he thinks. The new text reads: _I rlly wan2 give u ur budget back Jeffershit but the fact that u’re a qt is NOT enouf to convince me itss not necessssary to cut it u feel?_

Thomas furrows a brow and questions his own integrity when he realizes he is smiling at his phone. _You’re drunk, we’ll talk about this tomorrow_ , he writes back.

 _Tmrw iz a saTURD ay,_ Alexander responds astoundingly quickly.

 _I’ll make you dinner,_ Thomas convinces himself to send and then turns off his phone before he writes anything more while he is feeling stupidly sentimental. Tomorrow, they will negotiate. This time he doesn't plan on coming away from it worse off than before. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The FACTS:  
> \- Jean-Joseph Soubadère de Gimat was Lafayette's aide-de-camp and BOY let me tell you the internet tells u almost nothing about this fucker, so let me: 1747–1793, came over with Laf in 1777, he was a first Lieutenant in France and then came to the US when one overzealous recruiting agent named Silas Deane, quite a character btw, promised him the rank of Major in the US without actually having the power to do so. Eventually he made it to Lieutenant Colonel though, soooo. Btw, is it just me, or is it weird to anyone else that Lafayette was a GENERAL? We always lump him in with Laurens and AHAM because of the musical, and they were friends, but he outranked them + he was actually younger? Anyway, GIMAT: was wounded at Yorktown while taking the Redoubts with AHAM, and then eventually became a governor in France.  
> \- Jean is the French version of John, and that just made me wonder when people stopped translating names??? Because, you know. There's John, Jean, Johannes in German, Juan in Spanish? And they are all the same names but nowadays when we speak different languages we don't change the name. EXPLAIN.  
> \- Thomas Jefferson's favorite flavor of Ice Cream was indeed vanilla. The Mac&Cheese obsession is more common knowledge, but this one feels equally hilarious, so why not pepper it in there.  
> -Thomas CONWAY, not only the name of my sixth grade Humanities teacher, bless him he was dope af i miss him every day, also the name of a historical asshole. He was one instigator of the Conway Cabal, an idea to replace Washington with Horatio Gates after the former lost Brandywine and the latter 'won' Saratoga, if we are defining winning as 'he said he won it after Benedict Arnold did the only decent thing of his military career and won the battle FOR him, but even then he couldn't loyally obey his orders and had to renege, even though in this case, yes, I approve'. Anywho, Conway tried to win Gilbert away from GWASH by luring him with the promise of military honor in CANADA. It didn't work, in the end.  
> \- IDC that the Brits were the 'bad ones', Peggy Shippen was a BAMF. She convincingly pretended in front of GWASH, Ham & Laf to have lost her mind after Arnold left her in American Hands & I love her. Fite me. Also, John André was a HUNK and anyone who disagrees can catch these hands, yo.  
> -Conrard Gérard was an emmissary from Versailles and the alliance treaty was handled in part by him.  
> -Monsieur Capet is King Louis XVI of France  
> \- James Monroe was a HOE for gossip, but as far as I know he WASNT the one that kept an entire burn book like TJ did - seriously, look it up.  
> \- Timothy Pickering & James McHenry are part of the Anti-Adams-Triumvirate I mentioned briefly. Pickering was Secretary of State until 1800, McHenry was Secretary of War & also worked with Ham as Aide de Camp during the war.  
> The FRENCH:  
> \- Oh, mais mon cher Thomas, il n’y a plus des aristocrates ici, pas depuis- Oh, but my dear Thomas, we don't have aristrocrats here, not since...  
> \- n'est-ce pas -> means: isn't that right?  
> -C’est primordial que je tente parler Français, parfois -> Its extremely important that I try speaking French, sometimes  
> -Ah, mais vous parlez notre langue avec un accent si charmant -> Ah, but you speak our language with such a charming accent.  
> -entre nous -> between us  
> -Plus tard, alors? J’espère que tu n’es pas trop méchant. C’était plus ma faute que la faute de notre ami. -> Later, then? I hope you are not too angry. It was more my fault than the fault of our friend  
> -vous, euh, passez la casserole -> literally: you pass the casserole. A very vulgar of saying 'you guys are fucking, amiright?'  
> -s'envoyer en l'air is also a euphemism for fucking, but the difference here is that 'to send oneself into the air' refers to a more casual hookup whereas the previous slang referred to a liaison with overwhelming passion. Cultural nuances, lol. 
> 
> The GERMAN:  
> \- 'Ch bin Schwoizer, verdammt -> I am Swiss, dammnit
> 
> I AM HUNGRY FOR COMMENTS PLS FEED ME or i die D:


	3. Every actions has an equal, opposite reaction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Join me on everyone's favorite roller coaster c:

"Well this is disturbingly familiar," Eliza hums when she wakes up on top of Alexander, also recently re-introduced to the world of the living and awake, though the latter only by its most basic definition of ‘having ceased sleeping’.

"Blast from the past," Alexander agrees, rubbing at the corner of his eyes and blinking before Eliza takes pity on him and fishes for his glasses on the nightstand. She isn’t moving away from him though. He mumbles his thanks when she pushes them onto his face and he wrinkles his nose to get them into the proper position. "Correct me if I’m wrong but weren’t you on the other side of the bed when we fell asleep?"

Eliza smiles, "I’ve been known to cling."

Someone is singing in the kitchen and everyone that should be in the apartment, save for Gilbert, is accounted for in this room. ‘ _A faire jurer tous les tonnerres de Dieu_!’ they sing, impassioned, voice barely muted by the closed bedroom door, _‘A faire dresser tes seins et tous les Saints!_ _A faire prier et supplier nos mains, je vais t'aimer!’_

"Charmingly off-key," Eliza comments, drily.

"They can sing very well when they want to, so I know this is a deliberate attempt to fuck with me. Breakfast?"

Eliza and Alexander head to the kitchen, where the eccentric French is busy stirring something that smells like cinnamon oatmeal. " _Bonjour_ , lovebirds," they chirp, continuing to belt out alongside Michel Sardou, obviously blasting from the speakers of his phone. The day an American radio station plays him will be the day Alexander gives up completely. Gilbert finally turns around, and they look very surprised to see Eliza. "Eliza, do not misunderstand me, but you are not who I expected to see coming out of Alexander’s bedroom," they say, kissing both of Eliza’s cheeks while giving Alexander unreasonably suspicious glances.

" _On a fait bow-chicka-wow-wow hier, c’est ca?_ " The question is directed towards Alexander, who currently hates his temporary French roommate with the fiery passion of a thousand suns.

"You’re an idiot and I hate you," Alexander says, "Dinner and drinks got late last night and she didn’t want to drive back to Albany, that’s it. Also, she’s dating someone, or at least beginning to date someone. Also, super rude to speak French when she’s standing right here."

"Oh, _pardonne-moi_ , I did not know your tongue was frozen."

Confused looks. A pause. Metaphorical crickets begin chirping in Alexander’s head. Then: "Because you’re obviously salty. _Tu comprends, oui_? You put salt on a road in win-"

"We understand," Eliza smiles pleasantly, before gesturing towards the oatmeal. "Are you sharing?"

"With you I will share anything, because I am a gentleperson. Alexander does not appreciate me and so he gets nothing."

In no mood to argue, Alexander grabs an apple and pours himself half of the coffeepot. One of the greatest benefits of living with Gilbert is that they splurge on very high quality stuff that Alexander never really considers spending money on. These days he could probably afford it. Washington pays well and he has been comfortably set up these past few years out of college, but it is a habit not abandoned easily, the need to scrimp and save each penny he can. Even now, whenever he invests money in artisan coffee he feels a thrill shoot up his spine, needs to resist the urge to forego something else so that ends will meet. Even now, his pantry is stocked with too many non-perishables that always draw strange looks from visitors that stumble upon them. Gilbert has stopped commenting on it, they knew him in college, when that was the harsh reality of life for Alexander. (It took a while for Gilbert to catch onto the fact that Alexander was not fond of charity towards his person, but they tended to find new ways to support Alex.)

Gilbert and Eliza have made pleasant conversation as the two of them decorate their oatmeal bowls with the excessive amount of toppings Gilbert has lugged into the house already. Strawberries, coconut flakes, chia seeds, goji berries, toasted buckwheat, etc. (College Alex would have felt a migraine coming on right about now trying to assuage the cost of it all. Present-day head of Finance Alex has realized that Gilbert has more money than they will ever need and so he shakes his head and only smiles fondly at the lavishness of it all.)

"And why are you so grumpy, _monsieur_?" Gilbert addresses him as they finish uploading whatever photos they just took to various social media platforms.

"He’s got a date tonight," Eliza grins impishly, "He’s nervous."

Alex scowls. "Ah yes, the passionate zenith of all courtships ought to be tearing each other’s heads off over financial discourse a marketing executive does not fully understand. And they say romance is dead."

"He said he’d make you dinner, that’s a date," Eliza will not be deterred. Gilbert gasps and breaks out into a happy and disturbingly conniving grin.

"Treason," Alexander mutters, "Treason right in my very own home."

"You can’t commit treason against a person, and if no man is even an island, it follows you cannot be a state all on your own."

"Watch me."

"In any case," Gilbert continues with raised brows, "Can I take this to mean that Thomas and yourself will attempt to work out more than just the financial plan?"

"No."

"Mais, Alex-"

"No," Alex insists with renewed vigor. "Hooking up with him was a lapse in judgment and one I cannot repeat, alright?"

"Oh my god, _what_?" Eliza gasps. "You didn’t tell me the two of you have already done the dirty before!"

"Ugh, with good reason. It was a pathetic drunk hookup at a wedding a year ago and I’ve labored every day since trying to forget it."

" _Et mon cul c’est du poulet_ ," Gilbert deadpans, pointing their spoon at Alex accusingly. "You _like_ Thomas, don’t offend me further by denying it."

Alexander chooses instead to hold his tongue. He’s already thinking it, but saying it out loud makes it a tangible fact. Saying something out loud means it becomes impossible to take back. It is a small distinction to cling to, but Alexander doesn’t have much left to defend himself from falling helplessly at Thomas’ feet.

+

He ends up arriving at Thomas’ place about half an hour early, so when the man answers the door he does it in grey sweatpants and an obscenely stretched white t-shirt. His nose wrinkles and oh god he is wearing thick-framed black glasses and his hair is still up. "You’re early."

Now would be a good time for Alexander to present the bottle of wine and say something to explain himself, but instead he wastes precious seconds by staring and then blurts out, "Jesus, I know I’ve seen you naked and all but this is _something else_."

"Alright, why don’t you come in?" Thomas steps to the side, clears his throat, makes a sweeping hand motion. "And I’ll take that." The wine bottle is handed over as Alexander discards his jacket. Spring is well on its way and the temperature is beginning to tickle the edge of ‘pleasant’ during the day.

"I’ll go get changed," Thomas disappears, and suddenly Alexander understands Faust so much better. ‘Two souls live, oh! Within my bosom’, in which the first wants to protest losing the sight of Thomas in grey sweats and the second clings to the hope that he will be able to concentrate if Thomas changes. But mercifully it seems to man is above using his wiles to get what he wants. He returns soon in simple jeans and with a hoodie thrown on top of the t-shirt. He keeps the glasses though. It is only marginally better.

"What’s for dinner?" Alex wonders, sidling up next to Thomas and trying to peer into his proceedings.

"Cassoulet, we’re not trying to impress anyone here."

"Another French dish? One is almost inclined to think you biased."

Thomas smiles as he works, and Alexander settles into watching and pouring both of them the first glass of wine. He’s determined to hold off on a second until they hit work-relevant topics, but this feels nice, watching Thomas master the kitchen.

"That cooking class I took was predominantly French cuisine, hence my field of expertise," he explains.

"No interest in versatility?"

"I find that these days it is alarmingly easy to get takeout for almost any other style of cooking. French is unfairly lacking representation as a to-go goldmine, but it all plays to my benefit in the end."

Alexander hadn’t considered that. Takeout is a rarity in his household. "What do you cook for yourself, then?" Thomas asks him when he says as much.

"Right now I have the added support of a very enthusiastic food alchemist, but usually I go for dishes my mother taught me."

"Like?" Thomas prompts, chopping carrots while occasionally pausing to have a sip of wine.

"Pepper Pot, Goat Stew, Chicken With Rice," Alex trails off, "Anything that was cheap, really."

"Was that an issue?" Thomas’ question catches him off guard, but Alexander is more shocked by his own lack of abrupt defensiveness.

"Sometimes, yeah," he admits. Thomas looks at him from over his shoulder, searching for something with his gaze. "I’m sorry to hear that."

"In the past." Alexander is dismissive, because apparently the defensiveness was only momentarily delayed. He did not come here to unspool the various ways his childhood messed him up in the long run. Didn’t he just miss half of breakfast with Eliza and Gilbert recalling it? One meal a day spent on such thoughts is plenty.

"I don’t think I’ve ever had Goat Stew," Thomas wonders out loud, thankfully moving on. That man really has a knack for recognizing when his conversational partner is uncomfortable, doesn’t he?

"Maybe I’ll make it for you the next time we resort to this to try to avoid ripping each other’s heads off," Alexander teases, taking a long sip to avoid waiting too poignantly for Thomas’ reaction. He catches Thomas smiling. The man tucks his chin into his neck and looks down to hide it. Adorable.

"Speaking of-" Thomas takes a deep breath, only for Alex to interrupt him.

"That’s right, skip the wooing and get right down to it."

"Angelica gave me an idea that I think I can live with," Thomas turns the stove setting down lower and puts a lid on the pot. "I can’t lose my budget and you can’t let me keep it for your plan to work, we’re clear on that, yeah?"

"Crystal."

Thomas nods, working up to whatever he wants to say next. Alexander is fascinated.

"So," he begins, "You do whatever you want with the budget, but you help me recoup my department’s losses."

"And me recommending James Monroe helps you how, exactly?" Alex is hesitant, because that deal seems almost too good to be true.

"This isn’t just about Monroe, that you will recommend him to Washington is heavily implied and almost a prerequisite for this deal, I would say," Thomas drums his fingers on the counter behind him. Their stares hold.

"Then what do you want from me, Thomas?"

The air feels heavy, and Alex can say with some certainty that it isn’t just the result of the delicious concoction steaming on the stove.

"You help me at the fundraising gala Angelica suggested. Whatever you raise for your department, you divert to mine."

Alexander cringes. "That’s a lot of work."

"I think it’s a fair deal," Thomas challenges. "And it would please me immensely if we got that nasty business out of the way before it has the potential to spoil dinner."

"When would the fundraiser be?"

"Few months, a while after Angelica’s wedding and just before the Mulligan-Laurens date. Yes or no, Alexander?"

Really, it’s a no brainer. He gets off comparatively easy and sacrifices nothing for the time being. "Yes."

Thomas smiles at him. "Good." Then he returns to cooking, less tension in his shoulders than before. In Alexander’s professional opinion, that merits a second glass of wine.

Dinner is delicious and Alexander’s chest hurts at the easy flow of conversation. They lose track of time talking about anything, really, and Alex is reminded of the night they met at a halfway deserted bar during a wedding. Time seemed to fly then, as well.

Unfortunately, that means that when Alexander glances at the clock he is shocked to find that One AM has come and gone. "Oh shit," he gasps, and Thomas follows his line of sight. It seems he is equally surprised, shown by the way his eyebrows try to assimilate into his hairline. "Shit, uh, you can take the couch if you like."

"I wouldn’t want to impose," Alexander protests weakly, already eyeing the couch longingly.

"Think I might even have a spare toothbrush." Thomas makes a surprisingly good case. How could Alexander say no? It all feels very domestic when they stand in front of the mirror and brush their teeth in sync. Afterwards, Thomas makes to say good night, but Alexander stops him by taking his hand. They find each other’s eyes and Alexander offers a tentative smile. "Hey."

Tension on his face yields easily to a returned smile. "Hey," Thomas says, in low tones. Far be it from Alexander to decry himself as brave, but something always makes him surge on even in the face of fear. Washington calls it intrepidity. Eliza calls it bravura. Alexander couldn’t possibly say which word is more accurate, but it makes him cozy up to Thomas. His eyes follow Alexander’s movement, their deep brown giving nothing away even as Alexander’s other hand cups his cheek. He does, however, turn into the contact.

All Alexander would have to do now is close the distance. There isn’t much left of it anyway. If he stood up on his toes, if he leveraged Thomas to bend down a little –

Thomas seems to have caught on. His tongue, rosy and oh so promising, darts out to wet his lips; lips that Alexander has missed so much since the mistletoe incident. Neither man breathes. Should he? Should he not? Both pathways to take seem laden with possible disasters.

"Alex?" Thomas finally whispers, confused at his continued inaction. In a way, it decides things. He lets his hand fall away, clenching it at his side. All the accumulated air is exhaled, it is as if both of them utterly deflate. "Fuck," Alex hisses, screwing his eyes shut. "This isn’t a good idea, Thomas. Why do I want it so much?"

Thomas’ free hand touches his hip, their foreheads connect. "I want it too."

"Not anymore," Alexander retorts, snorting. "You said it wasn’t like that for you anymore." It feels like a confession to say it, even if he doesn’t actually say anything. He feels cut open, vulnerable, his soul bared to Thomas Jefferson, god have mercy on him now.

"I lied," Thomas’ voice, rough and insistent despite the throng of alcohol, sends shivers all over Alexander’s body. He feels Thomas’ breath on his lips. So close.

"There’s-" Alexander argues weakly, "Company policy, Thomas."

This seems to knock some sense back into both of them. The thought of a disapproving Washington dismissing both of them from the company is a sobering one.

"Alright. Sleep is probably the best idea right now," Thomas scratches a hand through his curls. The invitation to talk it out at some point floats through the air unspoken.

"Yeah, alright."

+

Alexander wakes up on the couch to an abandoned apartment and a sticky note on the fridge that lets him know Thomas has obligations to attend to. He can’t be faulted for that, there was no way of knowing Alexander would stay over. Still, it feels disappointing to have to linger in that state of uncertainty. The desire to talk things through and establish whatever it is they are is foreign but uncannily welcome in Alexander.

Last night was incredible.

Anna appraises him very thoroughly when he enters her coffee shop that morning. It is conveniently close to Thomas’ apartment, he is pleased to find out. "Those clothes look slept in, _caro mio_ ," she infers. Alexander is too giddy to be annoyed, so he offers her a sunny smile. "Yes they are."

"I am intrigued," she announces, leaning across the register.

"Who do you suppose lives close enough for me to have stayed over, Anna?"

She’s a perceptive one. That much is evident. "And he made you sleep in your clothes, did he? Where I come from that is considered terrible bedside manner."

"Where are you from?" Alexander asks, out of curiosity, and shockingly not because he wants to veer off topic. 

"Sicily, don’t think I’m thrown off by that deflection, you should have known by the nicknames I give you. Are you dating TJ?"

"Nothing happened," Alex admits, tipping generously because he can, nowadays. (Admittedly that is his favorite part of being financially stable. He recalls well the horror of retail work or service. He knows the value of a good tip.) "But things were said."

"Oh?" Anna’s smile is lovely. "Promising things?"

"Very promising, I hope," he gets out through his own smile, so pathetically wide it is borderline painful.

"Well, I assumed you like him, considering how much you talk about him, but this is better than I’d hoped."

She gives him a muffin for free. Life is good.

+

It has been a while since Washington has actively sought out Alexander’s advice in regards to such momentous decisions. "Ideally, I’d like it to be someone you can get along with. You understand why I am keen to avoid adding more fuel to the flame that has engulfed our meetings?"

"Yes, Sir," Alexander nods, swallows his instinctive choice of words for James Monroe, and soldiers on. "He’s competent." That much is at least true.

"He’s no fan of yours," Washington throws into the room for consideration.

"With all due respect, sir, choosing the head of I.T. based on whether or not they get along with me speaks of blatant favoritism, and we’ve got more than our fair share of those accusations to contend with already. As for the meetings, I can restrain myself."

Washington’s laugh is a rare commodity, rumored to be valued at more than half the current national debt among the interns, but he shows it freely now. "Oh? And where have you been hiding this marvelous restraint of yours? I confess I’ve never witnessed it."

Alexander chews on his lip and says nothing. How’s that for restraint?

"Not to worry," Washington soothes, "You’ve said your piece and Monroe is a strong contender. You’re very right about his competence. But other candidates show at least equal promise and you have no reason to support the man who attempts to castigate you online. So why?"

Why, indeed? He hasn’t seen Thomas yet, since Saturday. But a deal is a deal, no matter what confessions followed that deal. He intends to hold up his end.

"He’s got leadership experience. From what I understand Stirling trained him well in Scotland, and he worked with Lafayette, who spoke highly of him as well."

Why Gilbert spoke highly of James Monroe is another thing, since Alexander can’t claim to understand their reasons, but he does not need to.

"Yes, I’ve talked to the Lord Stirling and the Marquis, though I was not aware you shared their sentiments, son."

The refute already on the tip of his tongue at once more being addressed too informally is swallowed down. _Lacking restraint, my ass_ , he thinks.  "I have the interests of the company at heart." Truthfully, Alexander knows there are others more suited to this position, but he is thinking of the bigger picture here. Monroe will do a decent job, and if not, he can be replaced down the road. However, trying to struggle onwards with the wrath of a dismayed Thomas Jefferson impeding his power is a problem of a different caliber, and one so easily avoidable.

"You always do." Washington smiles at him. The meeting is done.

+

Work hits him hard enough that Thomas and he don’t see each other that day, or the next. There are glances across the bullpen, sure, but before either man can approach the other someone inevitably comes along and demands their attention.

Anyway, there’s something to be done first.

"Have a seat, Oliver," Alexander motions when the intern comes as beckoned. There’s something sparkling in his eyes, foreshadowing another angry outburst from Adams in the imminent future.

"If this is about Mr. Adams," he starts, babbling away readily, "I just wanted you to know that he called you a Creole bastard in the breakroom a few weeks ago and as much as I love my job and want to keep it I honestly couldn’t let that stand. Like, I know it isn’t professional behavior and my actions reflect on you, but he doesn’t know that it was me and the-, uh, well he doesn’t know and he won’t find out-"

"Oliver, stop." Alexander smiles. "I had no idea you were so fond of me." It’s lighthearted, but Oliver grows indignant.

"Even if I only respected you professionally and not as a great man in your own right, it would be the right-"

"Yeah, alright, we’re not here to discuss my many merits."

"So this isn’t about Adams?" Oliver surmises. "Because if it isn’t I’d nonetheless like to advise you not to walk by his office for the next few hours until his dry cleaning comes."

"What did you do?" Alexander asks, stunned, "Never mind. Don’t tell me. Plau-"

"-sible deniability, yeah." Oliver beams. "But, hypothetically, someone that wasn’t me might have installed motion controlled sensors that made aggressively loud barking noises when he enters his office. Hypothetically, Mr. Adams might have spilled his coffee over his shirt. Hypothetically, it might serve him right after he mocked you when the machine exploded over you. We should really get a replacement for that machine by the way, this time not speaking in the hypothetical."

"Replacing the coffee machine on the floor sounds like a job for my assistant," Alexander muses, playing with a pen.

"But Mr. Hamilton you don’t have an-" Oliver cuts off, makes a soft surprised noise. "Okay, I don’t want to brashly assume anything, but that held a definite implication, didn’t it?"

"I’d like to promote you to my assistant, yes."

"Oh my god," Oliver bites his fist excitedly, "What?"

"At this point I already consider you _my_ intern instead of a finance intern, so it seems obvious to me. You told me two weeks ago you’re graduating college in May. It’s entirely your choice, but the offer has been made as of this moment."

"Uh, yeah," Oliver nods eagerly, "I’m in. I am so in. Mr. Hamilton you are my dream boss, okay?"

"Take some time to think about it first, please. It comes with a lot more responsibility and I’m certain there are other offers for you. If you choose to go anywhere else I’d be happy to give you a letter of recommendation."

"Thank you." His grin is infectious.

+

"Who keeps sending you those?" Thomas asks three days later, when he finally finds his way into Alexander’s office at the very second a new botanical gift arrives. This time it is a coral colored rose.

"No one important, the I.T. intern just keeps bringing them to me." Alexander dismisses, because revealing the sender seems pointlessly cruel now that things with Thomas are looking somewhat hopeful and he has rebuffed the advance. "Any gift that requires me to google its meaning is obnoxious, in my opinion."

Thomas laughs. "It means desire."

"Of course you know flower language," Alexander means for that to be exasperated, but it comes out closer to awed. "Where’d you learn it, huh? Boy scouts? Cotillion? Sunday School?"

"My mother had a very extensive garden," Thomas explains loftily, "And rich housewives must find some way to pass the time, so she decided to instill the subtlety of passive aggressive flower messages in her son."

"I am not surprised at all," Alexander grins. Thomas looks very amused.

"I seem to remember a conversation we need to have," Thomas addresses the issue swiftly and directly. It’s all Alexander can do to manage a nod.

"I’ve been reading up on the matter at hand," Alexander finally gets around to saying. "We can disclose the situation, if we are serious, but under the condition that in the event of a disruptive split, one has to leave."

"Okay," Thomas nods, elbows on his knees and thoughtful. "Somehow I can’t see Washington believing any sincerity on my part or yours." The fact that Thomas does not seem eager to put himself forward as the one to be made to leave, in the event of a less-than-amicable separation is not lost on Alexander, because he feels the same.

"Me neither," Alexander sighs. They get no further than that, because there’s a knock on the door and then someone else demands their attention again. Thomas reaches across the desk to squeeze Alexander’s hand reassuringly before he leaves. Alexander’s heart skips a little beat. Fuck.

+

Thomas helped Peggy choose the venue for Angelica’s ‘bachelorette party’, Alexander remembers distantly, and it is well-suited to Angelica’s tastes. Nothing too gaudy, sleek and elegant interior design, music quiet enough that conversation carries well.

He has not been afforded the opportunity to talk privately with Thomas since that last time in his office, and it irks him. It feels as though the universe is conspiring to keep them apart, a supernatural force subtly trying to pound the already existing notion that ‘whatever you two are trying to commit to is a terrible idea’ deeper into his brain.

And it is a terrible idea, isn’t it? Only, that is hard to keep in mind when Thomas is smiling at him the way he is now. It’s subdued, for the benefit of those hitherto unaware of recent developments, but there’s a twinkle in Thomas’ eyes when Alex meets them that makes him want to run towards him. Instead, Gilbert greets Alex enthusiastically, clearly ahead of the curve in terms of intoxication. They pick Alexander up, a habit never quite broken since college despite both verbal and written protestations and demands for its discontinuance, and spin him around.

"How wonderful of you to finally join us, _mon sexfriend préféré_!" And Alexander cringes. What a lovely start to the evening. Of course, those already present, namely Hercules, John and a suddenly frowning Thomas Jefferson, are all aware that Gilbert’s stay with him includes more than conversations over breakfast and off-key singing. "Isn’t that offensive to your two other occasional _sexfriends_ , right at this very table?" Alexander answers, lamely.

At some point during their college days their foursome had adopted its more carnal meaning as well, Alex considers. With a start he realizes that he has slept with every person standing at this table, and suddenly he does not know how to feel about that. Thomas is still looking at him. Gilbert, whose perceptiveness is thankfully suppressed by alcohol, does not notice – or if they do, they choose not to comment. "Oh, but Alex, these two are so in love with one another they do not appreciate this PWP as you do."

"I’m sorry, this what?" Hercules chokes on his drink.

"Person With Penis," Gilbert pronounces, beaming widely and pointing towards themselves. Hercules looks equally shocked and concerned. "Oh, honey, no, that’s not what that means," he says, pulling out his phone and promptly leading them away from the table to – Alex assumes – enlighten them in regards to whatever it actually means. This leaves him alone at the table with Thomas and John, and the latter sidles up to him immediately and nuzzles his neck with a freezing nose. "Incidentally, where are the other guests? More pressingly, where is the bride-to-be hiding?"

"Getting made-over by Peggy in the bathroom," Thomas supplies when John does nothing but hiccup into his ear. Alexander nods sagely before addressing John. "Alright there, buddy?"

John grins, freckled face impossibly youthful despite years of alcohol and occasionally drug abuse. ("Nah, man, weed is medicinal. Name one study where any negative effects are proven-")

"I’m so glad Thomas and I are friends again, Alex," he exclaims, probably thinking he is whispering into Alexander’s ear. Eyebrows rise. "No more literary comparisons to evil villains?"

John shakes his head vehemently. "No." A beat, then: "That was a fun game."

"Can’t say I agree," Thomas interjects, drily. John shushes him from across the table, swatting a hand in his general direction and predictably failing to inflict any sort of damage. The Schuyler sisters return from their quest to the bathroom and Alexander extends heartfelt congratulations and makes small talk. He wants to talk to Thomas, he really does. But how to get him alone without raising suspicions? It boggles the mind.

He is still pondering it when their table is approached by two men that seem to know Thomas. One of them in particular gives Thomas a hug that seems overly fond. "Stephen," Thomas acknowledges, and since Alexander is sober he knows he is not imagining the undertones of hesitation and wary apprehension. "Who’s this?" Alexander jumps in immediately. Thomas isn’t thrown. With perfect geniality he introduces them. "Alex, this is a friend from way back. Stephen, this is Alexander Hamilton."

This raises alarm bells for Alexander as he is reminded of a conversation in which Thomas nearly broke down because of what ‘old friends’ said to him. But this Stephen only smiles and says, "Yeah, I heard you came out, man. Good for you. Is this the boyfriend?"

"Colleague," Thomas corrects gently, obviously relieved. But Alexander does not miss the way Thomas’ hand almost imperceptibly twitches towards him as he does, as if Thomas wants to assure Alexander that he does not mean it.

"And who is this lovely lady?" He addresses Peggy, who raises an unimpressed eyebrow. What follows is decidedly the most awkward attempt at flirting Alexander has ever witnessed, and he has a great deal of reference to make that decision against. And still he cannot get Thomas alone.  

 All he gets over the course of the evening is stares, not-at-all subtle as everyone gets progressively drunker. Alexander stays toeing the line of ‘mildly buzzed’. Were his tongue loosened a bit more, he would cease to worry about who overheard the confessions he wants to make, the conversation he wants to have. (And isn’t that surprising? Alexander Hamilton - willing and desperate to talk about personal feelings that go beyond righteous indignation or general outrage?)

+

Monday rolls around, Washington calls a meeting. Thomas holds the door open for Alexander with a smile that vanishes as rapidly as it appears, but it’s enough. They will talk. Alexander is determined. He will not be denied this chance. He will not screw this up for himself.

(In the end, for once, it is not Alexander that seems to deliver the killing blow to his own happiness. Instead, it comes in the apparition of one George Washington, President of W&A Insurance, defender of company policy and destroyer of tentative bonds forged in spite of it.)

"It’s highly irregular for me to call a meeting this early on a Monday, all things considered. But I felt I should inform you all that after considering the candidates and hearing glowing recommendations, I’ve decided on a Head of I.T." He gestures towards Angelica, who smiles, turning to the side to whisper her congratulations to Maria.

"Mrs. Lewis, we’re glad to have you on board."

 Alexander can’t say he isn’t pleased, and when Maria beams at him, he winks and mimes clapping for her. (In retrospect, this might have been counterintuitive.) When he reflexively glances at Thomas again, as he does perfunctorily every two minutes, the man’s entire demeanor has changed. He looks coldly furious, glaring at Alexander with unparalleled contempt. He has never seen him look like that, even during their worst arguments there was an underlying sort of connection. It feels severed now. He cannot read what is going on in Thomas’ mind, but his expression is indicative. It says a lot about the situation that Thomas, usually very adept at controlling his facial expressions, is unable to keep the anger at bay now.

Later, once the meeting is concluded and Alexander makes his way to his office, Thomas is once more standing in front of his office, defended honorably by Oliver, who has his arms crossed and is trying not to lower his eyes in the face of that cold stare. "Inside," Thomas snarls like a feral cat when he spots Alexander, "Now."

 The uneasiness in Alexander grows and something plummets inside his gut. Thomas is mad at him. Why is Thomas mad at him? Fuck, how did he already fuck this up? What did he do?

"I suppose you think you’re clever, yeah?" Thomas crosses his arms, refusing to give even a small hint as to why Alexander would believe himself to be exceptionally smart.

What changed since that smile at the meeting room door?

"Thomas-" Alexander starts, but does not get very far.

"I suppose I had no way of knowing you’d actually recommended Monroe, and stupidly I just took your word for it because I’m so dumb when it comes to you. I always am," Thomas rants, refusing to look at Alexander and instead pointedly staring out of the window.

"I _did_ -"

"And then the flowers, you told me they were from downstairs. It is like you wanted me to find out. Did you enjoy me being multiple steps behind your plan? All that time spent in I.T. _was_ suspicious. God, they gave me all the information I needed and I ignored it. I’m so ridiculous." Thomas squeezes his eyes shut, bites his lip, takes a few mastering breaths, continues, "It didn’t even register until this meeting. I had no idea-"

"What are you talking about?"

"She’s got her maiden name now, that Maria. Lewis instead of Reynolds. Recently divorced, I take it? Is that what you were waiting for? Well, there’s nothing standing in your way now-"

Abruptly, Thomas cuts himself off and stomps out of his office before Alexander can get another word out. His chest feels heavy, his throat is tight, and he is so confused. It is all he can do to sit down in his chair instead of collapsing onto the floor like he wants to.

Oliver enters half an hour later, concerned look on his face. He says nothing when Alexander does not address him, but he deposits a stack of mail onto his desk and then tops it off with a flower.

Alexander stares at the flower. He thinks it is a yellow Chrysanthemum. It takes a few minutes that feel like hours for him to confer with google. _Slighted love._ He thinks about it some more. If thinks about the flowers and their sender, he doesn’t have to think about Thomas. Slowly, he begins to type.

_Sorry I called it off before – you coming to the wedding?_

Five minutes pass before he gets a reply.

_Angelica invited me. Wear something pretty and I’ll think about giving you a second chance._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The song Gilbert is singing is 'je vais t'aimer' by Michel Sardou, a French singer that old people like. I've never met someone under 50 who listens to him unironically  
> \- Historian Ron Chernow reports that Secretary of the Treasury Alexander Hamilton and President George Washington "regarded much of the criticism fired at their administration as disloyal, even treasonous, in nature." When an undeclared Quasi-War broke out with France in 1797–98, "Hamilton increasingly mistook dissent for treason and engaged in hyperbole." a.k.a. ALEXANDER IS A DRAMA QUEEN OK. 
> 
> \- WHATS COOKING? https://theviewfromgreatisland.com/easy-cassoulet/  
> \- On James Monroe: he first served in the Dragoons under a captain William Washington, GWASH's second cousin, then served under General William Alexander, Lord Stirling. Stirling was of Scottish origin, hence why Monroe was 'taught in Scotland' in my story. He was wounded during the battle of Trenton. Monroe was also very close friends with LAF, who convinced him to fight the war with *passion* for la gloire of the motherland and the rights of the people. And then, in a nicely fitting touch: Monroe received his commission as Lieutenant Colonel under recommendation from three peeps. William Washington, Lord Stirling AND ALEXANDER HAMILTON. They only started hating each other after the war it seems. Story of AHAMS life lol, all those Virginians just start hating him eventually if they aren't GWASH.  
> -Stephen van Rensselaer was actually six years younger than Peggy, who knew? New York born and bred, attended Princeton and then Harvard, made it to brigadier General, remarried after Peggy's death but they eloped so likely it was a marriage of love. Did you know that Eliza was the only Schuyler sister, and there were actually five of them, who asked her father for permission to marry? Or rather, whose prospective husband asked her father for permission? Angelica, Peggy, Cornelia and Catharine all just DID THEIR THING.  
> \- also, when Laf was young, a.k.a. pre-revolutionary war young, he would get SO WASTED with the other fashionable young French nobility folks that he sometimes had to be forcibly put into carriages to bring him home. He always wanted to stay because he thought people would be impressed by how much he managed to drink. What a cute idiot. But then again, this is the boy that challenged a friend to a duel because he thought the friend was making moves on a lady he was interested in, even though he wasn't.   
> -GWASH going against Alexander's advice was a thing that actually happened sometimes, but every republican pointedly ignored it in favor of decrying him as 'a puppet of a power hungry AHAM'   
> -WHO KEEPS SENDING THE FLOWERS? WHO IS THIS MYSTERY PERSON? You have all the hints now. :D Whoever guesses it gets to request one scene they'd like to see in this series. 
> 
> The FRENCH:   
> \- on a fait bow-chicka-wow-wow hier, c'est ca? -> did you guys fuck yesterday, is that it?  
> -Tu comprends, oui? -> you understand, yes?  
> \- mon sexfriend préféré -> my favorite friend-with-benefits, yes, the French term for that is le sexfriend. I promise I'm not lying. I love the lack of pretense in that.   
> The Italian:   
> -caro mio means my dear
> 
> please remember to comment if you liked it or have anything else to say <3


	4. Relax, have a drink with me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas gets hella drunk in this one  
> Mystery flower gifter is revealed - what happens next will shock you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so no one guessed correctly, but for example I really liked the Kitty Livingston idea - i hadn't thought of her at all. She definitely should show up in this AU at some point. 
> 
> Thank you all for playing along with my whims & I would still like to hear where u would like this story to go. I love reading any comment I get. c:

Drunk at a wedding – again. He’s been here before and it should be embarrassing but the alcohol feels too good sliding down his throat to stop. The ceremony is over anyway, and he already made his way over to Angelica to congratulate her and Church on their good fortune. The month of May might be infamous for the volatile weather, yet they’ve been blessed with nothing but sunshine and mild breezes today. She deserves it, honestly. Angelica is a singularly wonderful woman. (Just as both her sisters are singularly wonderful women, in their respective ways. Philip and Catherine Schuyler did well in adopting and raising them.)

Adams took the seat at the table next to him about ten minutes ago, Abigail firmly by his side. She does most of the talking and Thomas remembers enough about social etiquette to throw in a few smiles and nods for good measure, but his mind is drifting, coming apart at the seams.

"Can’t imagine it will be long until they’ve got their first child running around, hm, darling?" John Adams tells Abigail dreamily. All of their children are out of the house by now, Thomas thinks. He is pretty sure one of them is interning with the company in Berlin, currently. Abigail agrees pleasantly and Thomas makes a non-committal sound. Angelica doesn’t seem the type to settle easily into motherhood, and he hasn’t heard her considering taking out her IUD, but really, what does he know? She might have told him and he might have overheard, for all the attention he can focus out of his mind.

Two weeks ago he confronted Hamilton at work. He hasn’t heard a word from him since. Instead, Oliver had brought stuff over, lacking the usual deferential politeness. The usual protocol for when the two of them are at odds, only it feels different now. Oliver is less prone to linger and chat a bit. Now that he has signed a more permanent contract with W&A Insurance as Hamilton’s assistant he has taken to his work with astounding gravitas. (Incidentally, since that promotion was announced, Albert has been side-eyeing him increasingly. Perhaps he should consider a promotion for him as well – he remains the only Head of something at the company without an assistant. No, he reconsiders, that isn’t true. The new Head of I.T. hasn’t been given the budget to appoint one yet. She still has to make do with interns, but he doesn’t doubt that Hamilton will make sure his latest conquest is well staffed soon enough. Briefly he wonders if he is being unfair towards the man’s character, but no, he decides that Hamilton just cared about morality when running the company while it was Thomas he was using.)

"Anyway, how about the nerve of that Hamilton, hey?" Adams swirls the contents of his glass, laughing bitterly. It is out of character for Adams to be so restrained in referring to the man, but Thomas thinks he must have picked up on the fact that whenever Adams insults Hamilton, something bad happens to him. (He must have a vague idea that a coalition of interns is working together to spoil his coffee or put sugar on his sandwiches whenever the man gets a little too into disparaging Alexander’s rather humble background; all harmless pranks in the end but still marvelously annoying. Thomas can do nothing but applaud it and appear appropriately sympathetic when Adams complains about it as he retches up the remains of what he thought was Ketchup but turned out to be Sriracha.) Thomas returns into the thick of conversation at the mere mention of the name. God, he is so pathetic.

"What about him?"

"He’s here with that lawyer, what's his name, Burn? Burt? – You know the one that helped the Lewis woman obtain her divorce?"

"Can’t say I do," Thomas looks around and spies Hamilton, leaning against the bar and playing with his tie, smiling self-deprecatingly and undoubtedly making a comment on the quality of it towards the man facing him. Thomas can’t see his face, but he is tall and imposing, a clean-shaven head, a suit tailored exactly to his body and a hand reaching forward to loosen the knot of Alexander’s tie a little. Flirtatious, easy-going, erotically charged. 

What he can see of Alexander’s apparent date is that he is well on his way to charming Hamilton. 

"I forget his name," Adams sighs, "But office gossip says that he’s been sending Hamilton flowers for months now. Looks like he finally gave in."

Something icy cold settles in Thomas’ gut. Please, no. Please, let Adams be wrong about this.

"Wonder why he waited so long, he doesn’t seem the type to play hard to get," Abigail muses. Thomas can’t decide if she likes Hamilton or not. In public her opinion is given as purposefully vague, and he has not heard anything uttered regarding Hamilton in private.

"Well, the divorce was finalized and since HR hired the lawyer after Mrs. Lewis pleaded for help to get out of her marriage he was technically Hamilton’s colleague until the case was complete, I suppose. He’s just covering his own ass as always, I suppose. That man is too careful to hand us a reason to fire him."

"Nobody but you is looking for a reason to fire him, John," Thomas responds, clearing his throat and bowing out of this conversation with a sense of dread attacking from his stomach. It twists, painfully.

+

He finds Eliza by the bar, chatting with Maria Lewis, of all people. Thomas thinks briefly about turning around and hiding – he’s never been brave, he’ll admit it. But by the time he thinks to retreat Eliza has already spotted him, and her bright smile and beckoning hand lure him in. Peggy seems to spot someone in the crowd and promptly disappears. 

"Thomas, you know Maria, right?"

Maria extends her hand, smiling pleasantly, "From the now notorious marketing campaign, of course. You were a delight to work with, that idea was absolutely iconic."

Fuck. "Right, you were our model for-" Thomas trails off, suddenly feeling unbearably nauseous. Maria is a _lesbian_. Maria is a lesbian and he accused Hamilton of having an affair with her. Hamilton likely didn’t forget about that small detail the way Thomas did. Hamilton pays attention to small details like that. The seemingly genuine confusion on his face while Thomas hurled accusations –  back then dismissed as Hamilton learning to fake what he regularly displays so openly with his eyes and general demeanor – perhaps was, in fact, genuine.

Maria smiles at him. "I still haven’t thanked you for what you did, by the way."

"What I did?" He asks, throat dry.

"I met Eliza at that photoshoot," Maria turns to look at Eliza, who, uncharacteristically shy for a moment, smiles at the floor. Their hands interlace. Eliza squeezes.

"I see," Thomas’ stomach tightens. Memories of Eliza bringing flowers for Alexander after she was down in IT surface. Alexander asking her about her friend in IT. Thomas got it all wrong, he got everything wrong. "You two are…?" He leaves the question open-ended.

"I was as surprised as you are," Eliza beams, sunshine incarnate. "After Alexander I wasn’t sure I could find it in me to try anything long-term again, but this one got me bad."

Maria, looking every bit like the cat that got the cream, takes a sip of her drink as she squeezes Eliza’s hand again.

"We’re taking it slow for the time being. Eliza is new to dating women, after all, and I’m new to trying this healthy-relationship-thing everybody seems to be raving about."

"I am happy to hear it," Thomas smiles, feeling hollow. He fucked up. He fucked up so bad. Frantic glances around the room find neither Hamilton anywhere in sight, nor Hamilton’s date.

"He left with him about ten minutes ago," Eliza interrupts his maelstrom of anxious thoughts, voice no longer as pleasant as before. Now it is cutting. 

"Pardon?"

Eliza sighs, world-weary and old beyond her years, "Thomas, I don’t know what you did but he hasn’t been doing well these past few weeks. He’s here with a date, he seemed to be enjoying himself, don’t try and confront him right now, please."

He wouldn’t know how to, anyway. Where would he possibly begin? What could he possibly say to make this right again? No, he jumped to conclusions like the giant fool he is, blinded by his own insecurity.

(A characteristic of his relationships, Jemmy would say. He was never as suspicious about Martha, because Martha took care to assure him of her unquestioned devotion. Martha was free in giving her affection to him, in pouring so much of her soul into loving him to appease the ugly green monster inside Thomas’ chest. Alexander is different. Alexander has experienced a great deal of heartbreak that Martha never did. Alexander can’t give as freely. Something inside of him always urges caution. He practically said as much at that last engagement party, out on the roof. Whenever Alexander gave too much it only hurt him in the end. Of course he can’t be what Martha was to him. Of course he was hesitant. And rightly so, it seems. Did Thomas not prove his caution right by accusing him of not only being dishonorable enough to discard their deal but also of a dalliance with a fellow employee, despite having no evidence past conjecture and a firm belief of _being right_?)

He wants nothing more than to make this right, but the mammoth task in front of him leaves him overwhelmed. Where does he start to pick up all the broken pieces?

He is Othello, lead astray by the jealous whispers of those around him and the insecurity of his own heart. Maria and Alexander forced into the unwilling roles of Cassius and Desdemona respectively, Monroe and his own treacherous mind wearing the mantle of Iago perfectly. And here Eliza is, a gentle Emilia, perhaps a Bianca, trying to convince him to see his foolishness only after it is too late. Perhaps John was right in his assessment of him. He does not deign to hate himself often, he is much too busy for that most days, but he does feel it keenly now. He ruined this. He ruined them. They could have been beautiful.

So, he drinks.

+

Thomas watches Laurens dance with his intended, deep in his drinks now. Hercules is broad and strong, but he exudes utter gentleness towards the man in his arms that seems almost unreal. John for his part is gazing up at Hercules, enraptured and enamored in equal measure. And Thomas is no longer jealous, instead he is envious.

Trust, he thinks bitterly, that is what they were lacking. He never trusted Alexander. He didn’t trust him enough to suggest he be the one to leave the company in case of a split. He didn’t trust enough to take that leap of faith. Perhaps that is what Alexander would have needed. Thomas should have afforded Alexander the courtesy of explaining himself, at least.

"Ah, young love, _c’est si mignon_ ," Gilbert materializes next to him, notoriously clumsy as they hold onto Thomas’ shoulder for stability.

"You miss Adrienne, I take it?" Thomas makes conversation despite feeling like every word out of his mouth that isn’t ‘ _I’m sorry’_ directed at an imaginary Hamilton feels like another betrayal.

"More than I can say, _mon ami_. I have just called her, and she was, at first, not very enthusiastic to be woken up from beauty sleep she never needs, but her heart softened when I confessed how dearly I miss her."

"How do you do it?"

"How do I do what, cher Thomas? I do a great many things, _si tu ne le savais pas._ "

"How do you and Adrienne manage to stay together, despite taking different lovers when the mood so takes you?" Thomas wonders. How do you avoid jealousy? How do you avoid fearing losing everything you have built? How do you not worry that she will like someone better? Many more questions go unsaid as Thomas stares helplessly into Gilbert’s concerned eyes.

"Oh, Thomas, _ma petite truffe_." Gilbert reaches out to comfort Thomas; the physicality of having his cheek stroked is a pleasant feeling despite his general unease. "It is a trust built through careful communication and negotiation, _c’est tout_. There are books I could recommend on it, surely-"

Gilbert stops for a second, their eyes flooding with more concern.

"This is about our mutual friend, _oui_?"

Thomas pointedly looks into his glass as he nods, searching for answers he will not find at the bottom. Perhaps it will be in the next one. He is about to call for a waiter when Gilbert stops him with a kind face and insistent hand.

"I fucked up. I didn’t trust." Thomas’ eyes burn.

"Perhaps for the time being," Gilbert agrees, characteristically blunt as always. " _Mais il me semble que – si tu me le permets –_ that it is not something you cannot at least try to fix. This is me, _en train de mettre mon grain du sel_ , but _je crois_ \- well, I believe in, _tu sais_ , uh, how you say, _appeler un chat un chat_."

A certain indication of one Gilbert du Motier being, as they like to put it, _fort bourré_ , is that they start throwing idiom upon idiom around. Thomas picks up on that.

"At the very least, _mon petit mammouth triste_ , an apology would be in order, don’t you agree?"

Gilbert is right. And still-

"Did Alexander tell you what happened?"

"Ah, non. He was eerily silent in this regard, which is how I know it cut him much deeper than he would like me to realize. Alexander does not yet accept that I can read him like a book after all these years. _Je dis ca, je dis rien_. He thinks I do not see, because in regards to small inconveniences he will uh, chew my ear off, as you say, and yet he holds his peace when truly shaken. _Mais maintenant, il est à l’ouest, tu vois_? Completely out of it. He does not sleep, he forgets to eat, because he does not know what he did wrong, et _comme ci_ , with you looking like a guilty _petit_ shit, _il me parait que, en fait_ , the poor dear did nothing wrong after all."

"You’re right," Thomas presses his hands to his burning eyes. How the words get out through a throat so tight he will never know. They feel torn from him, barely choked out. Gilbert, not smiling now, nods and pats Thomas’ cheek sagely.

" _Alors_ , go apologize. Or perhaps you should wait until you are sober, _hein_? _T’as bu comme un trou cette nuit_."

"I have to go find him." The thought permeates every crevice of Thomas’ mind right as he voices it. Gilbert nods, bestows an encouraging kiss on his forehead and smiles. Still, there remains concern.

"Do what you must, _noble chevalier_ , but see that you do not throw yourself onto a blade without heed."

+

Alexander does not answer his phone. Either it is switched off or abandoned in favor of more enjoyable experiences. Eliza did say he left. Perhaps he is with his date right now. Thomas cares little, he has to see him.

It is in the hotel lobby that he spots the smaller man, curled up on one of the sofas in solitude, hugging a bottle of wine to his chest and staring at the painting on the wall opposite.

"Alexander-" Thomas stumbles towards him, the path seemingly straightforward but riddled with people crossing even at this late hour. Alexander looks up at being acknowledged, his eyes wide and expression wary. He did that, Thomas did that. Fuck.

He reaches the couch and trips onto it. Alexander steadies him, evidently concerned now. Yes, even past the impenetrable haze clouding Thomas’ imbibed mind Alexander remains an open book of emotion. He was a fool to think Alexander could have hidden any insincerity on his part. It would pour out of him in buckets.

"I’m so sorry, Alex, I fucked up," Thomas whispers, wanting to reach out.

"You’re drunk," Alexander’s mouth curls downwards.

Thomas hides his face in his hands, pressing the heels against his screwed shut eyelids in a bid to escape the reality of the situation. "I know." His voice remains quiet. The quiet is the only way to control it. His voice will break if he tries to speak at a normal volume.

"You recommended Monroe like I asked, didn’t you?"

"Do you really need me to confirm it for you?" Caution from Alexander, once more. The man’s hackles are raised. "It seems like you figured that out on your own."

"Eliza is dating Maria, not you."

Alexander says nothing. His hands are folded tightly in his lap and he is very pointedly looking anywhere but in Thomas’ general direction.

"I need to sober up," Thomas sighs, "Will you sit with me?"

The few beats of absolute silence are hell. Then Alexander nods. He puts his own bottle of wine down, out of reach.

"How did you like the wedding?"

Thomas does not deserve this, he feels like. His apology was shit, he should do better. Alexander hasn’t even commented on it, so he must think it was shit as well. And still, he is talking to Thomas, strained but willing. Thomas feels like crying.

"Angelica looked beautiful," Thomas finally settles on.

"She always does," Alexander agrees, "I hear some undesirables made a betting pool regarding when she would resign in favor of motherhood."

"She won’t," Thomas says decidedly, confident in that fact.

"Angelica would more likely bring her offspring along and pointedly breastfeed during meetings, just to watch Adams’ head explode."

Thomas likes the idea of that. He thinks he giggles, but he is too drunk to be embarrassed by that right now. Alexander’s lip twitches, and he runs a hand over his face to compose himself.

"You looked happier when I saw you earlier," Thomas croaks after the giggles have subsided.

"Did I?" Alexander muses, saying nothing when Thomas’ head slides to the side to rest on his shoulder. Thomas nods. "You certainly didn’t. Every time I looked at you it seemed like you were one step closer to ultimate eternal misery."

"You were watching me?"

"I always watch you, Thomas," Alexander sighs. "A stupid pastime of mine, I’m surprised you have not caught me at it yet. Eliza tells me I’m not very subtle. Dear Gilbert agrees. Even Oliver has raised his eyebrows in silent judgment far too often."

"I want you watching me," Thomas admits, flinching when he hears Alexander’s breath catch.

"Thomas, you’re drunk-"

"Where did your date go?"

"Well, he was invited by Angelica, but apparently he and the groom have history and he was promptly told in no uncertain terms that he ought to leave."

"History?"

"Nothing like you might think. He’s a lawyer, and broke faith with Church a few years ago. They came to blows over it and I don’t think they are ready to forgive one another."

"How’d you meet him?" Thomas asks, morbidly curious.

"Eliza brought me down to IT to get lunch with Maria. He came along because he was already there to consult with Maria about splitting from Jamie. Very charming guy, and at that point I was still trying to get over the feelings I was beginning to develop for you. The flowers started a while after that."

"So the two of you are-" He doesn’t really want an answer, afraid of what it might be. Still, he asks, running into a waiting blade like Gilbert cautioned him not to.

Alexander shakes his head.

"Oh no. It was clear from the very beginning that if this were ever to turn into something it would be a very casual thing for both of us. Aaron is too – how best to put this – too passionate, I suppose, to settle for exclusivity, and it wouldn’t be possible anyway, since I’m still unfortunately hung up on you and all. Or, well, it would have been unfair to him, but tonight put a permanent end to that affair, I think."

His words are a lot to process, and Thomas thinks there might be reason for hope. It is a fickle thing, the little flame of it that comes alive in his chest, scaring away the green monster that had been ruling before. The flame must be kept alive at all costs. 

"The flowers didn’t imply anything casual," Thomas can’t resist bringing up. Alexander shakes his head.

"Those were jokes. I made a comment at some point that I would need to be seduced, that my affection does not come easily. He played along, is all. Aaron likes the chase of it. He likes having to wait for his gratification."

"Did he get it?"

"He might have, if he hadn’t dropped the little nugget about his lack of political views tonight. Up until then he was a very tempting distraction."

"Here I thought you didn’t care about your bedmate’s ideals," Thomas breathes out softly, fanning the sparks inside of his chest.

"Ha," Alex nudges him a little, "Your ideals may be shit, but at least you _have_ them and defend them. Burr told me he doesn’t vote, as if that isn’t the boner killer of the century."

"Oof," Thomas digests that, "Yeah." Alexander makes a gesture akin to ‘there you go’, and settles back into staring at the painting across from them. It is a Magritte, as far as Thomas, not exactly a connoisseur of art, can tell. But the series of _la trahison des images_ is renowned enough that Thomas can recognize at least some of them.

Fitting, he thinks bitterly. A more obscure cousin of the world-class picture of the pipe, this one reads ‘ceci n’est pas un pomme’. And Thomas gets it, he thinks. It clearly is an apple. It looks like an apple. It is painted to be an apple. All signs point towards it being an apple.

Much like, he thought, all signs pointed towards Alexander’s treason. And yet, the text beneath it rings equally true. It is not an apple, it claims. His art teachers back in school would regularly despair at his inability to interpret these surrealist works, but he gets it now.

It is, in fact, not an apple, because it is only a _painting_ of an apple. That is the first of many insights he gains, just like it was only the appearance of an illicit liaison between the Heads of IT and Finance.

Then, as a second insight, it is only an _apple_ because humans made up that word to fit the object. Thomas only construed Alexander’s actions as betrayal because he decided they constituted one. (After all there was never any guarantee that Alexander’s influence would result in Monroe’s promotion. Sure, they all think that Alexander has Washington firmly in his pocket, but they were all wrong, apparently.)

Thirdly, depending on which language you speak, perhaps it really is not a _pomme_. Someone who does not speak French does not understand that word. To them it is something else. Misunderstandings, Thomas muses. Misunderstandings are so easy when you are not on the same page.

He could go on and on about this. He could make his art teachers weep with this newly gained insight. But he is in his thirties now, really he should be focusing on the man next to him, not on how the painting relates to their screwed up dynamic.

"What do you vote, Thomas?" Alexander slides further into the couch, both of them staring at the painting. Is Alexander thinking about it as well? Have they come to the same conclusion? His foot nudges the wine bottle and Alexander bends forward to snatch it up before it keels over.

"I’m not starting a debate with you in the hotel lobby-" Thomas cuts him off but Alexander cares not an iota.

"God, I bet you vote third party, don’t you? Republican policies and Democratic ideals regarding social dynamics- Am I right? Is that it?"

"No political debates in the lobby, Alexander," Thomas dismisses again, impressed by Alexander’s astute observation.

"Where then?" Alexander taps the head of the bottle against his chin.

"I’ve got a room here," Thomas reveals. Alexander might have one as well. He doubts anyone would like to make the trip back to NYC from Albany at this hour. Alexander stands up and wobbles just a little. Perhaps Thomas is not the only one too deep in the bottle. Still, he follows and doesn’t question Thomas’ decision.

+

The door closes behind Alexander and Thomas freezes. He turns around to find Alexander leaning against it, hands behind his back, suddenly hesitant. Thomas’ heart aches. He wants to be close to him again, he wants to hold this beautiful man.

"Perhaps there is something we should do before-"

He gets only that far because Thomas has closed the distance, flattening Alexander against the door and interlacing their hands as he pins them above Alexander. Alexander’s chest heaves, frequent but deep bursts of air puff towards Thomas. Their eyes meet. Thomas kisses him.

Almost six months, it has really been almost half a year since he last kissed him. Why did they ever stop kissing? It takes Alexander a while to warm up to it, he remains cautious and hesitant. Thomas coaxes his mouth open methodically. He wants this. Alexander’s whimpers say something about his own desires. It is Thomas tongue that finally convinces him, that rouses him to action, to reciprocation, when he trails it determinedly against the inside of Alexander’s lower lip. The smaller man tears his hands out of Thomas’ now loosened grip and fists them in the fabric of his shirt, messing up the perfectly ironed fabric. He pushes Thomas’ jacket off in a hurry, it lands on the floor. Thomas vaguely mourns that in order to ensure it does not crease he would have to break the kiss – and breaking the kiss means leaving room for doubt to grow. He can't afford that. He needs to convince Alexander that this is worth it. That he is worth forgiveness, worth trying again. 

So, instead, he works on Alexander’s buttons, works on stripping him down. Alexander complies readily now, equally overtaken by lust as they slowly run out of air but keep kissing anyway, never breaking apart. They are both shirtless and panting when they fall onto the bed, and the exquisite friction of their clothed erections rubbing against one another startles both a moan and a sudden return to reason out of Alexander. Thomas is pushed off. Alexander scrambles to sit upright, blinking a few times.

"No, fuck. We can’t. You can’t do this, Thomas. We can’t fall into this routine again. I can’t take going through all of this shit again. This is a terrible fucking idea."

 "I’m so tired of waiting and pretending I don’t want this," Thomas sighs, stopping himself from simply kissing Alex again. It is a desperate plea of his own. He knows what he wants. Alexander knows what he wants. And yet-

"We’re drunk, both of us," Alexander closes his eyes and brings his knees up to his chest.

"We were drunk the last time," Thomas prompts, once more aware that what he is exhibiting isn’t exactly upstanding conduct.

"That doesn’t set a good precedent, don’t you see? And besides, you still haven’t even come close to issuing a proper apology, and I think I am entitled to one after-"

"You are," Thomas admits. Fuck, he just made everything worse by kissing him, didn’t he? What the hell did he do? How does he fix this?

"Shit, no, Thomas, don’t cry," Alex pleads when Thomas loses touch with the control mechanisms of his body and can no longer hold in the burning behind his eyes. He closes them, desperately trying to clear the tears away before they fall. The bed shifts, the sheets loud in the back of his mind, and he feels Alexander’s hand in his own.

"I’m sorry," Thomas chokes out. "I’m sorry I didn’t trust you. I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions. I’m sorry I ruined us."

It is too late. A tear escapes. Alexander makes a disconcerted noise and his finger swipes it away before it hits the pillow as it leaps from Thomas’ cheek. "Hey," he prods, "Look at me, please."

Thomas is loath for anybody to see him this way. Why is he still so reluctant to trust Alexander? Why is he so afraid of being vulnerable in front of that man? One deep breath, two, three. He looks.

"Thank you for apologizing."

Thomas nods, torn up about Alexander’s earnest expression. He does not ask for forgiveness, he is too afraid to be denied. "If you want-"

Silence reigns after Alexander takes a breath to compose himself. They shouldn’t be having this conversation drunk. But if they aren’t talking Alexander has no reason to stay. Thomas really wants him to stay.

"If I want what?"

"I was going to suggest that if you want to we should revisit this conversation in the morning. Neither of us is sober enough to consider the impact of our words enough. This is a serious matter, Thomas, a pretty apology is a nice gesture but it doesn’t fix everything."

"I know," Thomas assures him, because he does know. "Gilbert told me I should wait until I was sober, but I couldn’t- I needed- Well, I could only think about making it right."

"I’m glad you did."

Alexander does sound glad, and when Thomas looks at him again the emotion is unmistakable in his eyes.

"Tomorrow then," Thomas says, more confidently than he feels. What if by tomorrow Alexander has changed his mind and wants nothing to do with him? Trust and communication, Gilbert said. They were right. Thomas has to trust him. Thomas is the one that has to take the risk in this matter.

Alexander squeezes his hand then gets off the bed.

"Wait, please," Thomas voices his thoughts before he can stop himself. Alexander does wait, currently in the middle of picking up Thomas’ suit jacket and sliding it onto a clothes hanger to salvage what can be salvaged. He finds his own shirt somewhere at the foot of the bed.

His eyes are large and full of questions he does not voice.

"I won’t try and kiss you again before we’ve talked this through. But please, stay."

Alexander looks conflicted. A few tense moments pass as they consider one another. Eventually, Alex sighs and loosens his belt before stepping out of his pants. "They better have two toothbrushes in this room."

He disappears into the bathroom and Thomas remains on the bed, staring at the bathroom door as he waits. The toilet flushes eventually and Alexander returns into the room. "You’ll destroy your pants if you sleep in them."

Thomas nods. Alexander is right. But he is frozen in place, feeling as though any movement is bound to startle Alexander into a hasty retreat. He has to do this the right way. Alexander has no reason to trust him right now.

"Come on," Alexander prompts, "You’ll hate yourself in the morning if you destroy that god-awful suit."

"I can’t believe you still dislike the purple suit, after all the two of you have been through together," Thomas looks at the ceiling as he says so.

"I am interceding on its behalf now, am I not?"

"It thanks you, I think," Thomas sighs, wriggling out of the pants while trying to hide that fact that his desire has not fully waned. Alexander does not comment on it. He takes care of the pants. Then he slips into bed next to Thomas, getting the light.

They awkwardly lie in the dark next to each other for what feels like hours but is probably only a minute or two.

"Thomas?" Alexander’s voice in the dark is less hesitant, now that his face is hidden.

Thomas shifts to look at an Alexander he cannot see.

"Can I hold you?"

"Yes." Thomas croaks out. Alexander shuffles closer and pulls Thomas into his arms. The erratic beating of his heart is distracting at first, but it evens out after a while and Thomas admits he grows used to it. Will Alexander truly stay? He didn’t stay the last time. They fell asleep in a similar manner and when he woke up it was to a painfully empty bed.

He can’t ask him to promise he will stay. He has to trust Alexander. They will try and fix this in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The NOTES:  
> \- John Quincy Adams did work in Prussia for a time, as a translator. Dude knew so many languages it is actually INSANE. I.e. English, French, Dutch, German, Italian, Russian, Latin & Greek. The envy is real, friends. He was easily the most language-proficient POTUS  
> \- Abigail Adams hated Alexander Hamilton, mostly on behalf of her husband. Yes, it was not only him that despised the 'creole bastard'. Abigail took him for 'our very own Bonaparte' & much more colorful insults indeed. I mean, I dig Abigail Adams' power moves & ridiculously big dick energy, but she got Ham very wrong. But then again, he was annoyingly relentless and always interfering, so I guess I understand her perspective too.  
> -Yes, indeed, Aaron Burr was the man that helped Maria Reynolds divorce James Reynolds, in this story Jamie Reynolds because as mentioned in the first installment of this series, Everybody fucks at weddings, Maria is a lesbian. The hints have been dropping for a while now.  
> \- Thomas Jefferson was very prone to believing what he wanted to believe when it came to rumors - such as in his burn book tm, THE ANAS, in which he simply collected rumors and took them as fact sometimes, whether they were secondhand accounts or somewhat ludicrous. That is where the troll-like conversation about the 'three greatest men' some fanfictions reference comes from. Thomas had protraits of men he venerated, like Newton, and apparently talked about their virtues to Hamilton during a visit or sth. Then Ham, who hates Julius Ceasar with a burning passion and references him often in his essays while disparaging TJeffs - he thinks the two of them are very similar, tells him: 'oh no ceasar was deffo the greatest man that ever lived wink wink wink'. Alexander ur bi is showing.  
> -Have any of you read Othello? Okay, so, in essence: Othello is married to the lovely Desdemona, Iago is a jealous petty BITCH who doesn't feel appreciated by his General but really wants him to love him. Then Cassius gets promoted over him so Iago works at trying to convince Othello his wife is cheating on him with Cassius. It works because of misunderstandings & cunning. Cassius talks about his mistress - Bianca - and Othello thinks he means Desdemona & stuff. Eventually Othello strangles Desdemona in his anger. She forgives him tho because of Shakespearean ideals of what good wives are like. Then Emilia, Iago's unloved wife, clears up the whole matter and othello almost kills iago but then decides it would be crueler to let him live with his shame. O then kills himself. Nice.  
> -Also, Aaron Burr was NOTORIOUS for his sexual exploits. The relationship he had with his daughter was also surprisingly intimate, in that he wrote her to complain about say, the lack of boobs on his latest conquest, which disappointed him. I wish I was kidding. I mean, I'm all for open discussion between parent-child but honestly WTF. Either way, when Hamilton wanted to prevent Burr's ascendency, first as President - they had to vote like 37 times to break the tie between TJ and Burr & Timothy Pickering did a lot of lobbying on behalf of Ham - and then as Governor of NY, AHAM didn't even have to publish Pamphlets on him because everyone else was already ON THAT SHIT, pulling out lists and receipts of all the virgins he defiled, the wives he seduced & the women of ill-repute he infected with various diseases and what not. Burr got around. Also, at 77 he decided he would marry again & even then he couldn't stop sleeping around long enough for his 50-something year old wife not to divorce him. I know, I know, tragic. But what is even funnier, is guess who HIS WIFE GOT AS HER DIVORCE LAWYER? Alexander Hamilton Jr., the prodigial second son of our AHAM.  
>   
> \- https://www.christies.com/lotfinder/Lot/rene-magritte-1898-1967-ceci-nest-pas-5650359-details.aspx This is the painting in the lobby Thomas rhapsodizes about. I'm not very knowledgable about Art but I loved Magritte in school. Therefore, you must deal with it. 
> 
> The FRENCH  
> \- c'est si mignon - thats so cute  
> \- si tu ne le savais pas - if u didn't know  
> \- ma petite truffe - my little truffle  
> \- Mais il me semble que – si tu me le permets - but it seems to me, if u permit it  
> \- en train de mettre mon grain du sel - currently giving my grain of salt  
> \- appeler un chat un chat, lit: calling a cat a cat, fig: call it like i see it  
> \- mon petit mammoth triste - my sad little mammoth  
> \- je dis ca, je dis rien - just saying  
> -Mais maintenant, il est à l’ouest, tu vois? - but right now he is losing it, u see  
> \- il me parait, en fait - it appears, in fact  
> \- fort bourré - super wasted  
> \- t'as bu comme un trou tonight - fig: u drank so much tonight, my dude  
> \- chevalier- knight
> 
>  
> 
> please comment c:


	5. Having opened doors that were previously closed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Idiots don't understand how fighting works and have breakfast at the same time  
> James Madison, professional at being done with Thomas, explains the difference between emotions and choices.  
> The Anti-Adams coalition gains a new member.  
> A fundraiser happens.  
> Coffee shops & gay men are a thing on AO3. Its the law, I've been told.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am on a roll, aren't i? So this is part II over and done with, keep your eyes and inboxes open for part III

The bed is warmed by sunshine coming in through blinds he forgot to close last night. That isn’t what strikes Thomas as odd. He’s forgotten that once or twice before, surely. Through his headache it is hard to think of an appropriate example, but it’s bound to have happened before. Odd is that he is still ensconced in Alexander Hamilton’s arms. He looks twitchy and agitated, even in sleep. His mouth is moving, shaping silent words Thomas would love to hear out loud at a rapid pace. Thomas tries to hold in a chuckle as the younger man’s forehead furrows in consternation. His subsequent laugh wakes Alexander up. Alex clears his throat and looks irritated for a moment, then he sees Thomas watching him, and his entire face softens before determination takes over again, a picturesque demonstration of emotion. An open book. How could Thomas ever have thought him anything less than brutally honest?

"You stayed," Thomas observes. He can’t put words to how his heart flutters, how happy that simple fact makes him. He longs to put pen to paper, but truly the small amount of dedicated letters he has written are largely artefacts of embarrassing High School memories. Last time he fell asleep tangled up in Alexander he awoke to cold, empty sheets and gut-wrenching disappointment. This time he stayed. What made him stay?

"Good to know your hangover doesn’t impede on your stellar cognizance," Alexander snorts. "I _said_ we could talk, didn’t I? Did you think I’d just up and leave?"

Thomas recognizes when he is being goaded, about seventy-five percent of the time. This is one of those times.

"You talk in your sleep, did you know?" Thomas teases, trying to prolong the inevitable separation that will come with the words they are about to exchange. He likes being in Alexander’s arms, despite the man’s smaller stature. They are economical in how they manage to encompass most of him in spite of their size.

"What was I saying?" Alexander plays along, smiling as light fingers trail up and down Thomas’ back. It relaxes him, he won’t deny it. And if he releases a tiny sigh as he burrows closer, that’s his own business.

"Too quiet to hear, but you looked angry."

"I was probably dreaming of trying to teach you financial theory, then."

"Hey." Thomas narrows his eyes.

"You have no right to be offended by that, since you actually have no grasp on how money works. You, Thomas Jefferson, are a fiscal failure," Alexander insists through a yawn.

Thomas elects to say nothing. Sometimes, Alexander hits the nail right on the head and Thomas tries not to be too flustered by how astute the man is. He’s on a roll right now, so he shifts in the sheets to better look at Thomas. The rustling sound is calming in a way. 

"Come on, no need to be ashamed. I’m just saying, you probably have a guy hired specifically to manage your vast assets," Alex prods.

"So what if I do?"

"It just makes me wonder where you get off thinking you should lecture me on my very well-thought out finance plans. I mean, I studied specifically for that. Four years of crushing student loans, which I’m still paying off by the way, and too many all-nighters."

"Can we not?"

"I mean, we can get around to talking about why you accused me of an affair with Maria, if you’re that antsy for this to devolve into half a screaming match before either of us have had caffeine, but I imagine your head is pounding enough already. Thought we could keep it light for a few more minutes," Alexander shrugs.

"Screaming match?"

"You didn’t honestly think I wouldn’t be pissed off about that?"

"I had a small and frail hope."

"Hm," Alexander huffs, grabbing for the phone and ordering room service for the both of them. "Yes, four shots of espresso. Do you not do that? Truly? Well in that case I’d like five coffees. Four with milk, one Americano with caramel syrup. Tell me you have that at least? Great. I’d also like some cinnamon. As for food-"

He gives Thomas a look.

"Yeah, Breakfast menu sounds perfect."

After he hangs up, he looks thoughtful for a while. "I can forgive many things, you know? I’ve heard a lot, after so many years. Very colorful commentary, ranging from being Washington’s clandestine bastard to offering him my ass for the position I hold now. I can overlook such words better nowadays. You should know though, Thomas, I’m still very sensitive when it comes to accusations of lacking personal integrity or honor."

Who wouldn’t be? Fair.

"I’m sorry," Thomas tries. His head still hurts too much for so much regret.

"You said as much," Alexander looks at his fingernails, distractedly. They are bitten down very much. "I very much understand that you regret jumping to conclusions, but I want to know why you felt the need to."

"Honestly, Alexander, all I could offer you right now would be excuses for inexcusable behavior."

Alexander’s look is expectant. Yeah, Thomas figured he wasn’t going to get off easy as that.

"You must have some sort of justification. I want to hear it."

There’s a polite knock on the door and Alexander decidedly disentangles from Thomas to accept the food. He brings Thomas his cup of coffee. It doesn’t magically clear his headache as well, but it fires up the rest of his mental faculties enough to fight back. Alex knocks back his first two cups of coffee like shots before he joins Thomas in bed with the third one and a tray of croissants and various jams.

"I was stupid to listen to Monroe’s gossip instead of actually talking to you, what else can I say? He kept on alluding to you spending too much time in I.T. and I didn’t even know about Burr being hired."

Thomas distinctly remembers defending Alexander when Monroe first brought up the rumors. The doubts must have crept in later, once things had the potential to get serious. He takes a long sip, focusing intently on the liquid scalding his tongue. God, how did Alex just chug them down? Are his nerve endings completely fried? Alexander hums as he considers this, indulging in the occasional sip.

"So you thought that since Washington didn’t hire Monroe, it must have meant I went behind your back and didn’t actually recommend him in a scheme to get my supposed lesbian lover promoted?"

"When you say it like that it sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?"

"I can’t see how I could phrase it so it wouldn’t, if we’re being honest. All of you greatly overestimate my influence on that man. He very much has a mind of his own."

"If we’d-" Alexander begins, then stops. A few seconds later he starts again. "If we’d established, before Washington’s announcement, that we were in a committed relationship, how quick would you have been to jump to the conclusion that I was cheating on you with her?"

"Just as quickly, most likely," Thomas owes Alexander that much honesty. He’d been so convinced of being right. He doesn’t think anything short of Maria making out with Eliza the second she got her promotion would have made a difference.

Alexander is quiet for a long time before he speaks, sounding somewhat defeated. "So, I don’t see how you think this is going to work if you don’t trust me. I have my share of issues, and I’m certainly no picnic to be with. I am aware of that. But a relationship requires at least a modicum of trust, don’t you think? And if not that, then it deserves at least an agreement to hear one another out when in doubt."

"Do _you_ trust me?" Thomas challenges, feeling sick to his stomach.

"To keep your word? Yes, you’re a principled man. To actually talk to me before you go off about something? Not so much. This isn’t the first time this has happened, Thomas. You are very quick to see me in the worst light possible. You saw me getting coffee with John and assumed I had cheated on him with you, for some reason. And now this. It makes me feel like you already expect me not to be faithful and I don’t see what I’ve done to deserve that."

"This isn’t a problem on your part, Alex."

"You’re seriously ‘ _it’s not you it’s me_ ’-ing me right now?"

"It _is_ me." Thomas sighs. "I have had one relationship in my life. One. I got together with Martha when were in High School. I am very insecure, especially about you. That is my own problem, I recognize that now. It is something I need to work on."

"And in the meantime I’m supposed to let you intermittently cut me out of your life when you so much as suspect me of wrongdoings?"

Thomas’ heart clenches. "No, that isn’t fair to you."

"Well spotted. So how do you imagine this ever working out?"

Silence. They each go to picking at their croissants. Alexander goes for his fourth cup of coffee. Eventually, he speaks up again. He just isn’t good at keeping quiet. Thomas doesn’t know whether to be thankful for that or not, half the time. This time he definitely is.

"Look, Thomas. I like you. That hasn’t changed. I’ve worked up to being ready for this. I would be game to give this a try. But I can’t be in a relationship where whenever something doesn’t go according to your plan I suffer for it."

"I know," Thomas admits. Alexander untangles himself, makes to leave now that breakfast is pretty much over. Thomas grabs for his hand.

"Alex, come on, don't walk out on me."

Alexander kisses him, slowly and deliberately. Thomas sighs into it, tasting traces of cinnamon coffee and cherry jam on his tongue. Don’t pull away, he wants to plead. Let me fix this, he wants to beg. He hopes his tongue effects his mental supplication. _Stay, Alexander._

They do break apart, inevitably. "You see what the problem is, yeah?"

Thomas nods.

"If you get to a point where you say you can trust me, try asking me out. Can’t imagine I’ll say no to this."

Alexander leaves, leaving behind too many finished cups of coffee and a sense of loneliness.

+

"Timothy, have you seen Albert anywhere?" Thomas catches the young intern unaware at the copy machine early on a Monday. Timothy startles, quickly picking up whatever he was photocopying and clearing his throat. He’s a young man, still, probably only just past his eighteenth birthday. He remembers reading something about a Japanese mother in his motivational letter, values of hard work and standing up for what one wants that were passed on to him. It was a very inspiring letter, as far as he can recall. Maybe that is why Washington made an exception and hired someone this young, even if it is a temporary position that he fills for now.

"Albert?" He asks, eyes flitting across the room. Thomas is willing to bet this guy finished puberty at some point, so why does his voice crack?

"My intern, Albert," Thomas repeats, slowly, "He works with you. Swiss, bespectacled, prone to talking under his breath when he thinks I won’t hear?"

"No, yeah, I know who Albert is," Timothy Pickering nods, "Yeah, I know Albert. Definitely know that guy. Mhm."

"Glad we cleared that up," Thomas raises an eyebrow, "Now in regard to my earlier question?"

"Nope," Timothy says, way too quickly. "Haven’t seen him, Mr. Jefferson. Couldn’t tell you that he’s probably in the break room with Adams now. That would be nothing more than base conjecture."

Briefly, Thomas wonders if they are ever going to get normal interns. When do they hire new ones, anyway? Occasionally applications just land on his desk and he either approves or vetoes. Are there set times? How long do their contracts run? He should ask Laurens. HR probably takes care of that thing, right? Oliver chooses that moment to enter the room behind him, already busy talking. "Hey, Tim, did you get that _thing_ we need ready yet? Albert is-"

"Oh no, please," Thomas crosses his arms when Oliver stops short upon spotting him. "By all means, tell me what my intern is."

"Can’t say what he is _exactly_ , but by now probably equal parts _Schoki_ and sarcasm. Where he is, now that’s an interesting question in its own right."

Thomas levels him with an exasperated look. He can guess that they are playing for time, he isn't an idiot.

"In the break room, Mr. Jefferson," Oliver clears his throat, looking serious. "If I may – a word of warning?"

"I love those," Thomas raises an eyebrow.

"Wait a bit until you try making coffee today. You know what, I’ll send an e-mail. That might be best."

+

Thomas watches as Albert is getting talked at by Adams while they are standing by the coffee machine, looking torn between absolute boredom and intrigue. "They thought they could get the best of me, those cretins. Just you wait, I’ll figure out who belongs to that group of veritable fiends trying to trick me, ha! I’ve got my eye on them now," Adams chuckles, preparing a cup of coffee all of his own.

The past weeks have made him very suspicious.  He shakes out a little packet and Thomas catches Albert licking his lips in anticipation. Albert crosses his arms as he repositions himself against the counter. The intern’s eyes are keen, like a hawk watching potential prey. Unreasonably gleeful, Thomas finds himself pretending to rummage around in the fridge to keep busy long enough to see what will happen. Adams samples a bit of his sweetener.

"Tastes like sugar alright. No more surprises for me, son. I have them beat now. Sooner or later, they had to stop, you know? Otherwise I could get very unpleasant indeed. It is good that they stopped now that we'll be working together more, in the future. Believe me, Albert, you wouldn’t like me before I've had my cup of coffee."

Albert says nothing but makes a vaguely agreeable noise of encouragement. Adams takes a sip and then promptly spits his coffee into the sink. He leaves the break room hastily, clearing a path to the bathroom.

"That’s so weird," Albert whispers to himself under his breath, "Cause I fucking hate you…all the time."

Thomas clears his throat behind Albert, who turns around, unbothered. If he hadn’t gotten used to his intern’s knack for constant disdain, he might still be surprised by such words.

"What was that all about?"

"Sometimes coffee powder goes stale, Mr. Jefferson," Albert shrugs. Thomas wonders if it would be unprofessional to immediately inform Albert of his impending promotion, in the face of learning he is apparently part of the Adams-related shenanigans. It would be. Shame. He'll save it for later. 

"Someone must have taken their time to make sure it went stale before making their move and switching out the powders. What veritable fiends we have, roaming these offices."

"I see," says Thomas.

"Yes," Albert sighs contentedly as he watches Adams emerge from the bathroom looking slightly murderous, "You do see. How can I help you, Mr. Jefferson?"

+

James and Dolley live in a posh gated community. (Thomas is sure they would live in Montpelier, if it wouldn’t be so damaging to remodel the estate to be wheelchair-accessible. Thomas, for his part, feels no love for Monticello. That place holds too many memories to ever be anything but haunting.)

He pushes James along the streets in his suburban neighborhood where multiple people jog past. A common sight, he realizes. Perhaps this is what people who don’t have to work do all day. It’s a nice feeling though, to push James’ chair around without a definite location in mind. It gives him time to think.

"What is this, _Intouchables_? We never do this."

"Can’t be, you’ve told me in needlessly explicit detail how able you are to get it up, James ‘just keep the fucking cockring on’ Madison. Philippe can only experience pleasure by stimulating his earlobes."

Thomas takes James’ earlobe in his hand and massages it, leaning down to whisper in his ear. "You like that, Jemmy?"

James swats his hand away, glaring angrily. Still, he laughs a little. That’s nice.

"Is there a reason you’re kidnapping me from my home to stroll around a neighborhood I’ve seen a million times?"

"Dolley says you need the air," Thomas chirps, teasing James all the more by occasionally tugging on his earlobe. It unfailingly produces annoyed swatting motions and clicks of James’ tongue. "Apparently you’ve been prone to bitching more than usual recently. I’m just being a good friend."

"Bullshit, you want advice."

"You wound me. Are you saying I am _not_ a good friend? I can try harder on the earlobes, if that would convince you."

"Spit it out, Thomas, I’m grumpy today."

"You’re always grumpy. I thought it was part of your new Dad-sona. Or, you know, flu symptoms."

"Jonny is starting to walk very well. Sometimes he runs." James finally gets out after silent minutes are passed in contemplation.

"Ah."

"It just makes me feel bad for him because he’s got a dad that will never be able to play catch with him or whatever else he’d like to try," he continues. Once James gets over his initial reluctance to air out his mental laundry, it all comes together quickly.

"That is what godfathers are for then, isn’t it?"

"Thomas, don’t kid yourself, please. Your hand-eye coordination is abysmal. You broke your wrist while slow dancing with Martha. You had to wear a cast for a month."

"Don’t be fucking rude. I could learn."

"Can’t teach an old dog new tricks, not that many at least."

"I’m doomed then, aren’t I? If I am unable to learn I’ll just always be stuck where I am now."

"Head of Marketing is a dreadful place to get stuck in, I agree, so many ladders yet to climb." James isn’t too keen on putting up with his bullshit today, it seems. Thomas understands. The guy has a lot to contend with on his own.

"Alright then, you’re just being contrary for the heck of it now," Thomas accuses as he works up the courage to talk about what he really wants to. "I want to be with Alexander."

"How does that relate to _tricks_ you are incapable of learning? I realize that I might have been inappropriately explicit in the past when frustration got the best of me, but I assure you that was not an invitation for you to do the same."

Thomas goes for the earlobe. A statement that sarcastic does not deserve anything less. James hisses as he swats at him.

"He said he wanted to try being with me."

"Did he go back on his word?" James guesses, invested now.

"No, I fear this time it is my fault. I don’t think I’m ready after all."

"You haven’t had a relationship since Martha," James considers, rubbing his hands together and observing his wriggling fingers. Sometimes Thomas catches him staring at his feet intently, and he knows that those instances are James trying to see if by some miracle he might have regained control of them. There’s a reason he does so much physical therapy, even if the doctors have told him his motor control is highly unlikely to ever return. Such times make him think of the definition of madness, but he can't begrudge James the right to hope. 

"It is perfectly normal for you to feel some insecurity about starting something new, when the alternative is safely staying in your bubble of spinsterhood." 

"He says I don’t trust him," Thomas murmurs, "And he isn’t wrong, though it isn’t his fault."

"Why would you say you don’t trust him?"

"It’s like you said, Jemmy. I’m scared. It was easy to go all-in while I thought Alexander wouldn’t want something serious anyway, but now he does. And I can’t- God, Jemmy, you know how insecure I get. He’ll get bored, or something. I’m scared of being hurt and not being able to stop it."

"Well, alright, but consider this: any relationship is a leap of faith in a yet unknown direction. There really is no other choice but believing him when he says he is serious, if you want to get things started. Believe him when he says he’s into you. Believe him when he says he wants it."

"You say that like it’s so easy," Thomas snorts.

"It isn’t. Like anything else, it is a decision. You can’t help what you feel, Thomas, obviously. You need to gas yourself up a little. You’re plenty interesting, oh, no, don’t laugh at me, I am aware I’m not good at the whole compliment thing. My point is, you can’t change what you feel, but you can change how you act about how you feel? Understand?"

"Not entirely," Thomas frowns.

"You’re insecure. Alright. Accept that. Nobody is saying you have to rush headfirst into ‘one step away from getting married’ here. There’s no reason you can’t just date him first, see if that will make you more secure. You have time to settle into the relationship at your own pace. But trusting Alexander is a _choice_ , not a feeling, and you’ve got that mixed up."

"That’s it?" Thomas knows he sounds dubious.

"Look at me, for example," James pinches the bridge of his nose. "Then look at Dolley. You think I don’t have insecurities about our relationship? You think I don’t stay awake sometimes thinking how much better she could do? Of course that happens. But she made her vows to me. She says she wants me, and even if I can’t understand why she would, I choose to believe her."

+

"And a fond, temporary, welcome back to our Head of Public Relations, Mrs. Church!" Washington raises his glass towards the table where Angelica is seated, resplendent in a dark white dress with a hundred black lace flowers sown on. She really went all out for this charity gala, didn’t she? Thomas, for what it’s worth, has been convinced to abandon his beloved purple suit tonight in favor of a red piece, so that he is matching with Peggy. (He hasn’t been shopping for clothes in a long time – that was a fun afternoon. And if afterwards, Peggy was picked up by Stephen to head to dinner, he avoided commenting on that quite spectacularly.)

"Thank you, Angelica," Washington says on stage, earnestly, "For putting this together while simultaneously planning a wedding. I am in awe of your capabilities. We’ll be very grateful when you finally return from your extended honeymoon. And now, Ladies and Gentlemen, I’d like to introduce our Head of Finance, Mr. Alexander Hamilton, to explain how this is going to work."

Alexander gets up from the table he shares with Lafayette, Laurens and Laurens' fiancé. They clap loudly, hooting, and he is pretty sure that is Lafayette who is whistling on their fingers. On stage, he clears his throat and adjusts the microphone, which Washington left at a height that towers over Alexander. Thomas catches the exact moment that Washington realizes this, and promptly watches the man cringe and redden.

Adams, at his table, snorts and leans over to Abigail to whisper something. He makes no show of hiding his disdain and Thomas hopes that one of the interns sees. Henry Knox also sits at their table with his wife, Lucy, who glares at Adams reprovingly. Thomas likes her, she makes for great conversation. Her father was a high up in the Hanover Company W&A Industries separated from, so she knows a thing or two about how things run around here. The last pair at their table, apart from Dolley and James, who showed up to support Thomas' department, are Mr. Greene, an old colleague who no longer works with them, and his wife Catharine.

"Good evening, everyone," Alexander says once he has finally got the microphone adjusted. "So, because I’m the money-guy they expect me to explain how we’re going to raise it all tonight, but I’ve been told by various sources," here a pointed look towards his table of friends, "That when I get too into it my speeches tend to drag on, and I’d like you all to stay awake long enough to bid, otherwise we’d be wasting the great turnout we’ve got tonight, wouldn’t we?"

A chuckle goes through the crowd. His speech is very charismatic, Thomas thinks, when he takes care not to get too technical.

"Glad you agree. Alright, so I suppose we’d best start with a demonstration, what do you guys think?"

The crowd, he was right, there must be at least nine hundred people at the various tables, gives him a round of applause. Alexander grins, tucking a strand of loose hair behind his ear. "Can I get Oliver up here for a quick demonstration?"

Whoever is managing the lights – Thomas squints his eyes and finds the legal intern at it – pans directly to Oliver’s table. The new assistant looks startled.

"This wasn’t discussed with Oliver before, because he didn’t put his name down on the official lists like I asked him to, so this is me hazing my new personal assistant a bit. Hazards of the job, you understand, Oliver. Come on up here."

"So, here’s how this will go, once our moderator for the evening takes over. There’ll be a brief introduction, à la: this young man is Oliver Wolcott Jr., he works in Finance, his hobbies include sketching, reading and working for me. He shares a birthday with me, that's the 11th of January, for those of you who want to know, so we're both capricorns, and you can make a bid for him to tutor your kid in math or physics for ten sessions. He pledges the money to our stellar marketing department, but he’d be grateful for tips to pay off his accumulated student debt after he just graduated summa cum laude."

More laughter. Alexander really has a knack for this, Thomas has to acknowledge. Someone actually bids on him, and Oliver reddens, but he smiles good-naturedly and accepts his fate. Lafayette takes over after that, equally if not more charming but not entirely as comprehensive. Angelica was smart to rope Alexander in for that first part. The only department heads to put themselves on the lists are Edmund Randolph, who offers legal advice, fittingly – his wife Lizzie shrewdly drives that bid higher by playing along at trying to buy his services – and Maria Lewis, who offers Salsa tutoring. To Thomas’ great surprise, some ex-employees have their names down as well, like an intern he remembers as Trumbull, who offers painting lessons.

Angelica invited many of their important investors, and they seem greatly pleased to bid whilst enjoying some dinner. All in all, it seems a very successful feat.

The floor is cleared for dancing and general merriment afterwards, and Thomas watches enviously as Alexander twirls Gilbert around the floor effortlessly. They are a very clumsy person, Thomas knows that for a fact, but somehow Alexander makes it work. Thomas faintly remembers that Gilbert won Maria’s offer. ‘ _To impress Adrienne, évidemment. She so loves to dance, and what better to bring back from les États-Unis than a new skill? What better to show her how much I have thought of her?_ ’

Thomas takes Dolley to the dancefloor after much work goes into convincing him, and James watches them fondly, if longingly. Some things just really aren’t fair, Thomas thinks, and hates it. But Dolley at least seems to be having fun.

He runs into Alexander at the bar, of all places.

"Cosmopolitan for you?" He grins at Thomas, still a little out of breath from demonstrating and showing off Maria’s skills at Latin Dance.

"Different suit," Thomas smirks, "So a different drink must follow." He promptly orders a Sex on the Beach, just to see if it will make Alexander laugh. It does.

"The red looks good," he offers.

"Better than the purple?"

"Undoubtedly, but I’m unreasonably attached to that horrid color now," Alexander flirts.

"You look good too, Alex," Thomas says, honestly. His words bring out a flair for the dramatic, apparently, as Alexander twirls in place, showing off just how well-tailored the blue suit is.

"You like it? Hercules insisted I should have a new one made for their wedding. This is the preview, but I’m not so sure I like it enough to wear it again. He had a green alternative that I think I would prefer."

"I had no idea you were so into fashion," Thomas snorts. "But it really isn’t the suit so much as it is the man wearing it."

"Oh, _mon ami_ , that is a common and boring line, you can do much better, _zut_ ," Lafayette leans onto the bar behind him.

"Hey, Gilbert, not now, yeah?" Alexander asks, severely. Gilbert sighs and rolls their eyes.

" _Tu sais_ , Alex, I am not entirely without tact, though you love to accuse me so. I can see you two are _en train de vivre d’amour et d’eau fraiche,_ " they point meaningfully at Alexander’s newly arrived glass of water and grin at having managed a successful pun, "But George has asked me to tell you he wants to see you, et, _donc, comme  je suis_ his dear marquis _, il faut que je suive les instructions qu’il m’a donné._ Alors, Alexander, _mon champion de la danse,_ you better go."

Alexander nods, stone-faced, and excuses himself, carrying his glass of water away. Thomas watches him go with no small amount of regret, which is not lost on Gilbert.

"You made up then?"

"In a manner," Thomas reveals, uneasy. There are so many things yet unresolved between them. What if too much time passes again? He has to talk to Alexander soon. There are things that need to be said before he loses the daring to follow through.

"What manner?" Gilbert wiggles their eyebrows. Thomas scowls.

"Not like that," he insists, "In that way I, well, you’d say, _je me suis pris un râteau_ , probably."

" _Dommage_ ," Gilbert pouts, stealing Thomas’ drink for a sip despite having ordered an inordinately expensive Mojito just seconds ago.

"He had valid reasons. It was the right call."

"Easy for you to say, but my poor romantic heart, _mon dieu, ca me fait du mal_."

"You do realize you are not actually part of this relationship?"

"Heh, just because those are your words, _mon ami_ , it does not make them true, _tu comprends_? I am invested very deeply in the happiness of my friends."

"No one could ever accuse you of the opposite," Thomas smiles at Gilbert, somehow still grateful for their intrusiveness.

"Ah, well, _Rome ne s’est pas faite en un jour, oui_? Perhaps you will get there eventually."

"That idiom is almost exactly the same in English, word for word. Sometimes I think you’re doing this on purpose."

"You shall never know, _mon_   _petit mammouth moins triste_.”

+

Anna looks surprised to see Thomas come in on a Saturday afternoon, but after the fundraiser last night he desperately needs a pick me up. He lost sight of Alexander after Washington monopolized his attention for an impolite amount of time. (Alexander loves chatting up Mrs. Washington with unbound fervor, most likely that is what kept the conversation going for so long.)

After that, Thomas was busy rubbing elbows with investors and making conversation with colleagues and their partners. They didn’t get a chance to talk, and so the evening ended with James and alcohol. Dolley brought out sheet face masks and cucumbers for eye treatments, and it almost felt like High School again, only with a Martha-shaped hole between their bodies.

(Sometimes Thomas forgets that he wasn’t the only one that lost her. Dolley lost her best friend too.)

"Did you plan this?" Anna leans across the counter expectantly, whispering excitedly as she waits for his coffee to finish brewing. Strands of thick dark hair have come out of her long, pinned up braid, and her eyes sparkle.

"Did I plan on getting coffee?" Thomas questions, shrugging, "I suppose. My feet don't usually move of their own accord."

Anna looks like she’d dearly like to reach across and smack the back of his head, but she thinks better of it and nods towards a corner of ‘The revolutionary Coffeenant’, where a harried figure sits, typing away furiously on a laptop while downing what is objectively the worst coffee combination in the world.  

"Uh, what’s he doing here?" Thomas manages to get out, mouth dropping open.

"I take that as a no then," Anna huffs behind him. Thomas turns back towards her, blinking slowly and caught off-guard. Does he say hi? He wanted to talk to Alexander, after all. But is this a good time? The man looks like he is busy. Then again, when is he not busy? He probably snuck off for half an hour at the fundraiser to finish typing up _something_.

Anna looks at him for a long time, somewhat disappointed. Then she pushes two coffees towards him and throws in a muffin for good measure. "He needs a refill by now, I’d wager."

"Thanks," Thomas nods, and tips extra well.

A few deep breaths have to be enough to steel his nerves, because that is all he’s getting. Alexander notices someone approach and when their eyes meet both men short out for just a second.

"Thomas," Alexander nods, before his eyes look at the second coffee expectantly. Thomas puts it on the desk in front of him. "Thank you," Alexander says pleasantly, gesturing towards the second chair. "Do you want to have a seat?"

Thomas will deny this to anyone who asks about this in the future, he will take the truth of it to his grave, he will defend it with his life, because what follows is really not his proudest moment in terms of smoothness, but it goes something like this:

"Go out with me," says Thomas, unprompted and without any context at all.

But Alexander just smiles sunnily, and nudges the chair across from him with his foot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the FACTS  
> -TJ was in fact very ready to always assume the worst of Hamilton, ranging from 'he wants to turn the US back into a monarchy and marry one of the younger daughters of George III to put himself in power' to 'Sure, he SAYS he's grievously ill, but IS HE??? Or is he faking it for attention??' No lie.  
> -Did u know Albert Gallatin was called Abraham Alfonse Albert Gallatin? What a dorky name. Also: Someone nominated him for Vice President in 1824, which he didn't want, and then he was forced to withdraw because nobody backed him. He also helped plan the LEWIS & CLARK expedition & eventually became fascinated with the study of native americans -> means he founded the American Ethnological Society. But the dude also stood for 'assimilation' which means he basically tried to erase the natives & make them like 'normal' people. I am conflicted, triple A.  
> -Timothy Pickering was actually older than AHAM by at least ten years and only two years younger than TJ. But since I'm hc-ing him as half-japanese in this I might as well change other things, right? Anywho: he went to Harvard. Also, before Steuben came along, they used his published ideas on how to drill the army. Then he eventually made it to Adjutant General. Steep career.  
> -Few people liked Adams. He even ruined things with Lafayette, the revolutionary equivalent of an excitable puppy. Gallatin was amongst those that despised Adams for the way he handled things. He was leader of the Republican Party during Adams' term. Someone even accused Albert of being a French Spy.  
> -Intouchables is an amazing French film about a friendship between a disabled man and his caretaker. I love it so much. The book is dope as well. I think there are talks of an american remake, but I heard they were considering Kevin Hart & honestly--- just watch the French film with subtitles. Do yourself the favor pls.  
> -TJeffs did break his wrist, but in France, and couldn't write for an entire month. It never really recovered fully.  
> -Henry Knox's wife, Lucy Flucker, was the daughter of the most important British official in Massachusetts, and eloped with Henry against her father's will. They had to flee and for the entire duration of the war, she and her growing brood of children - eventually 13 - were essentially homeless. They were a happy couple for the rest of their lives and I really love seeing successful marriages in ye olde times.  
> -AHAM and Oliver share a birthday, 11th January 1760 for Olly and either 1755 or 1757 for Ham & it is the best thing I have ever heard it makes me so happy.   
> \- I like Nathanael Greene. He kept Cornwallis pretty busy in the South during the war. Did anybody know he was a quaker?? I didn't. So he had many problems trying to reconcile the religion's pacifism with his actions during the war. His wife Kitty was 12 years younger than him but apparently they liked one another well enough. 
> 
> The FRENCH-  
> -vivre d'amour et d'eau fraiche - lit: to live off love and fresh water, fig: to be in love and not care about anything else  
> -donc comme je suis his dear marquis, il faut que je suive les instructions qu’il m’a donné -> so since I am his dear marquis - this is how GWASH addressed him in letters - I have to follow the instructions he gave me.  
> \- mon champion de la danse - my dancing champion.  
> \- je me suis pris un râteau - lit: i took a rake, fig: I got rejected.  
> -mon dieu, ca me fait du mal - my god, it hurts me  
> \- the one about rome I suppose you can guess, yeah?  
> -petit mammouth moins triste -> my slightly less sad mammoth
> 
> The GERMAN  
> -Shoki is a shortened form of the word Schokolade, which means chocolate. Its sort of a joke amongst German speakers that the Swiss shorten it this way.


End file.
